


Apotheosis

by QTCutie (CanisMajor1234)



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: A singular hawk, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, I cannot emphasize that enough, Implied/Referenced Past Child Abuse, Injury Recovery, Isu Technology Bullshittery, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Medical Procedures, Mistaken Identity, Mutual Pining, Rating May Change, Religious Conflict, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Slow Burn, Time Travel, because william miles was never even in the running for Dad of the Year, big oofs, for like 5 seconds, hawks, look im not a doctor and neither is Desmond, probably, which physically hurts me to write, you know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2019-09-23 22:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 25,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17089304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanisMajor1234/pseuds/QTCutie
Summary: “You are… Ibn-la’Ahad?” Kadar asks, very, very carefully. And yeah, Desmond is, in the technical sense of the term. His parents won’t be born for centuries. Desmond is the Son of No One. So he nods, slowly and with some hesitance, and lets Kadar draw what assumptions he may. And fuck, that might just be easier. Calling himself another one of Umar’s sons. The man broke the tenets of the Brotherhood once, who’s to say he didn’t find comfort in any other women, right?It’s not like they’d believe the truth anyway.ORDesmond returns to the beginning to rewrite the ending.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [I was born for this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16094690) by [esama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama). 



> So uh. I finished AC3, finally. Here is however many words of me being mad about it.  
> Comments are now being moderated.

It’s so strange to think that  _ this _ is how the assassin’s originally learned to unlock their Eagle Vision.

A couple centuries before Masyaf, of course-- by this point, they’ve figured it out and forgotten it again. But Tita chirps and clicks her beak from her place and Desmond’s arm, and Desmond just. Doesn’t really get it. Like, he kind of understands the legends? Demigods/Isu-descendants learning to unlock their potential from the hawks they hunted with. But Desmond can’t really wrap his mind the concept. Like. At all.

But Tita has been sticking to Desmond since he climbed and clawed his way out of the Temple of Solomon. She’s brought him mice. And rabbits. Fish. Other birds. Bits of garbage too. He doesn’t know why she’s doing it, or even if she belongs to someone out there who’s missing her. Hawks have to be like, trained and shit, right? Desmond doesn’t really know. Falconry wasn’t exactly something covered back on the Farm, and it was never really an interest for him living on the run.

She hasn’t seemed to have the inclination to leave, though, so Desmond supposes he’ll let her stay. Well, as much as it is his choice. He could chase her off, but then he’d risk claws to the face, and he’s already got a lot on his plate right now. Kadar is asleep in the building beneath him, out of the woods but not completely healed yet. Desmond used the Apple to heal the worst of the young assassin’s wounds, but what he was  _ able _ to do was pretty heavily limited by what Juno couldn’t  _ stop _ him from doing. 

Which. Is problem point number two. Juno and the Apple, buried beneath the bushy shrub behind the house, still pulsing angrily in Desmond’s Eagle Vision. She’s not happy that her plans haven’t come to fruition. Robert de Sable was supposed to get her, or Al Mualim, and Altaïr’s careful, dedicated,  _ stubborn _ training against her influence shut down any attempts to take over Desmond’s mind in retaliation. It’d almost gone very bad. Very, very bad. Because he could feel her desperation, her anger and her rage and her  _ want _ , and for a moment it had almost felt like his own. He’s more sensitive to it, he supposes. The same way he more easily syncs in the Animus. And he’s-- he’s not ready to fight her yet. 

The worst part is  _ knowing _ . Knowing what he could do with the Apple-- Minerva, she did something to Desmond before she sent him back. He can  _ feel _ it, buzzing under his skin, power that tastes like lightning in the back of his throat. It’s how he’d twisted the Apple, forced it to do what it hadn’t been made to do. Or, maybe he had just used it as a conduit? He doesn’t understand it yet, not completely. But he knows that there’s  _ something _ , and he…  _ wants _ . 

“ _ Want is the first foothold _ ,” old-Altaïr says in the back of Desmond’s head. So Desmond sighs, and lets the want fall away. It’s. Not easy. He knows how Altaïr did it-- meditation, reading, running the Brotherhood, training, training, training. But Altaïr had the benefit of people beside him, helping him, advising him, keeping him in check when he began to slip. Maria. Malik. A slew of Master Assassins who’d grown to be Altaïr’s trusted friends. Desmond is-- Desmond is on his own. 

Tita chirps, pushing her beak against Desmond’s face. It tickles-- Desmond laughs, using a finger under her chin to push her gently away. Right. Not really alone with featherbrain here. Desmond lifts his arm so she has a little room to take off without smacking him in the back of the head again, and she goes, soaring above where they’re staying to do… whatever she does. Very important work. Right. Desmond has some important work to do too. 

He doesn’t know who used to own this place, or why they left, but Desmond’s pretty grateful that they didn’t leave too long ago. Sure, the door wasn’t on its hinges when Desmond got here, and he had to throw out just about every rug and curtain and straw mat in the place because they were so molded it was kinda disgusting, and the ceiling leaks when it rains and pretty much only when Desmond’s not paying attention, but the first floor is a solid place to stay while Desmond figures some things out. 

Namely, twelfth century medicine. Desmond traded for a pot of honey the same way he traded for the curtain for the door, the pillows that Kadar is sleeping on, and the tools he’s been using-- manual labor, and pickpocketing. He’s been able to pass himself off as a medicine man for the sake of hiding Kadar without having to worry about what might happen to the injured assassin while he slips out of the city to forage, but Desmond doesn’t have the first clue as to what he’s doing. Honey poultices were a thing before modern medicine, right? And ethanol works to clean wounds, though Desmond’s been having a little trouble getting alcohol that strong. He’s honestly thinking about trying to brew and distill it himself-- that much he actually knows how to do. That, and forage for food, which he can then trade for herbs he actually knows how to use.

A little sage tea for Ada’s persistent cough. Hot peppers and a little mint for a capsaicin salve for Hassan’s aching joints. Yarrow to help keep away infections, willow bark for a tea to keep down fever and pain. Thyme helps with fever too-- Desmond knows that last one from old Google searches and personal experimentation that one time he didn’t have enough money for ibuprofen but did have the little herb garden in his kitchen window. Peppermint to help soothe Dalia’s stomach in the face of her morning sickness. Ihsan comes in with what looks like scurvy just based on Shaun’s numerous, graphic descriptions of the symptoms seemingly made to make Desmond squirm, and Desmond sits her down on the floor and makes her eat the entire lime that he’d spent three days of hard work saving for while he makes a tea from cinnamon and the rind for her to take home with her. It won’t taste good, he warns her, but hopefully that plus a better, more diverse diet will help. 

And the whole time, Kadar still sleeps. Desmond sighs and ties the curtain closed behind Ihsan. Okay, so Kadar hasn’t slept the  _ whole _ time-- he’s woken up maybe once or twice, feverish and panicked, and Desmond’s been able to help him get down some simple vegetable broth before Kadar passed out again. And it’s only been a week since Kadar got his stomach laid open by some asshole who clearly couldn’t tell Kadar was- is- a  _ kid _ . And when Desmond peels back the bandages and begins to clean away the old poultice there’s no signs of infection or excess swelling or necrosis around the stitches that Desmond can recognize. He worries, though. Because he did something  _ kinda _ reckless with the Apple back there, and he didn’t really have time to thoroughly clean Kadar’s wounds before he did, and if Desmond’s fucked something up than Kadar is going to die. Again. And this time it will be firmly on Desmond’s shoulders.

Not exactly what he was thinking of when Minerva suggested he might slip back to change history. 

Tita lands on the window sill and begins tearing into a fish that Desmond sincerely hopes she didn’t steal from some merchant’s store, and Kadar shifts a little when Desmond begins to re-apply the poultice, discomfort tingeing the soft blue with green. Right. Sticky honey being spread across skin isn’t very comfortable, especially when that skin is healing and hyper-sensitive. It’s necessary, though. Antibacterial properties and all that shit. Desmond’s not going to apologize. 

What he  _ is _ going to do is let the wound breathe a little while he sets a pot of water over the fire. The water pre-boiled, but he’s going to boil it again before he even thinks about putting anything in it. Carrots, celery, onions, salt, pepper-- it’s not great, but meat here is a little expensive, and Desmond doesn’t have any on hand right now. He might get some, if Kadar is going to stay awake this time. Or, he’ll get Tita to fetch him some. She likes doing that. 

“Where am I?” Kadar asks, and it’s Malik’s sharp-edged caution that rings in Desmond’s ears. It’s hard to swallow down Altaïr’s instinctive, snappish reply. Instead, Desmond pitches his voice low, gentle. Soothing.

“Jerusalem. The poor district.” Desmond stirs the pot slowly and forces himself not to turn around. He wants to. He really doesn’t like having a person behind him that he can’t see-- holdover from Connor, probably, though he might remember Altaïr having the same problem. He’s not sure. He didn’t really spend a lot of time in Altaïr’s head until Altaïr already broke a lot of bad habits Al Mualim had encouraged. “How are you feeling?”

Blue. Blue, blue, blue, blue. There isn’t even a hint of other colors in Kadar’s swirling form. Desmond blinks, forcing back the Vision with effort as Tita makes a scratchy, cooing sound. It’s amusing to watch Kadar’s head snap around to the hawk, up until the pain of startling into a sitting position catches up with him and his hands go for the wound across his stomach. Desmond is quick to intercept, catching Kadar’s wrists and easing him around until his back is against the wall and he can rest, upright, without stressing his wound too much. There’s still some stress. There is inevitably going to be stress. But at least sitting up like this Kadar shouldn’t need Desmond to baby him through drinking a cup of broth. 

_ Shouldn’t _ . Key word. Kadar’s hands shake, with pain and maybe a little anxiety, as he reaches out to very gently stroke Tita’s head where she had hopped up beside him. Leaving her fish bones all over the window sill again. Ugh. 

Ginger. Thyme. Willow bark would be harder to hide in the soup, because it has a much stronger flavor, but Desmond doesn’t know how much pain Kadar is in, or how high the young assassin’s pain tolerance is, so he pushes it aside for now, along with poppy and valerian root and ginseng-- all of which are fairly expensive, funded pretty much exclusively by Desmond’s pickpocketing, and can have some pretty nasty side effects. Desmond highly doubts Kadar will want anything that affects his mind right now. 

“Who are you?”

Desmond hums as he begins to finely chop some of the ginger and scrape it into the pot. There. Are a lot of ways he could answer that question. He hasn’t been mistaken for Altaïr yet, which is. Good? Maybe. Kadar also hasn’t gotten a good look at his face yet, though, and really it’s only a matter of time before the  _ weirdly strong _ resemblance starts coming through. Like, seriously, there are how many generations between Desmond and Altaïr? Either Isu genes are a  _ lot _ stronger than anyone let on, or. Huh. Desmond doesn’t really know how to explain away that one. 

Fuck. Desmond needs like, a mask or some shit. A hood isn’t going to help his problem, it’ll just make him look  _ more _ like Altaïr, not less. Maybe he can get the plague-doctor mask trend kicked off early. Or just. A simple cloth mask. It’ll make sense, if he’s going to keep trying to tend to the ill. None of which solves his current issue. 

“You need to eat something,” Desmond says instead, fixing himself and Kadar a cup. It tastes  _ foul _ , the ginger far too strong for Desmond’s tastes, but it still tastes  _ mostly _ like vegetable broth. Hopefully Kadar won’t mind. Well. Actually, Desmond doesn’t care if Kadar minds. It’s this or nothing. Still. Courtesy. Desmond hasn’t lost  _ all _ of his manners, being jumped back eight hundred years. He takes another long drink in full view of Kadar as he hands over the other cup, and lets Kadar get a good, long look at his face. 

The recognition is there. Desmond can see it on Kadar’s face, in the way his blue flashes green, red creeping in from the edges. The red fades as Kadar narrows his eyes, taking in the fact that Desmond is-- well, taller, for one, thank you modern genetics and nutrition, and thinner. A little softer in the face. The green relaxes into barely an undertone. Kadar trusts him, but warily. Desmond very,  _ very _ pointedly takes a drink from his cup, holding Kadar’s eyes, and allows himself a very small smile when Kadar  _ very purposefully _ mirrors him. Then pulls a face. Yeah, it’s. Not good. 

But Desmond finishes his cup, and Kadar drinks dutifully while Tita struts around the room like she owns the place. And. Well. She kind of does? As much as Desmond owns this place. Which is to say, neither of them do. Desmond doesn’t even know how he would go about legally owning this place. It would probably take a lot of money. A loooot of money. Desmond doesn’t have a lot of that right now. 

“You are… Ibn-la’Ahad?” Kadar asks, very, very carefully. And yeah, Desmond is, in the technical sense of the term. His parents won’t be born for centuries. Desmond is the Son of No One. So he nods, slowly and with some hesitance, and lets Kadar draw what assumptions he may. And fuck, that might just be easier. Calling himself another one of Umar’s sons. The man broke the tenets of the Brotherhood once, who’s to say he didn’t find comfort in any other women, right? 

Hell of a story to spin, and Desmond’s never been great at lying. He refills Kadar’s cup and hands it back. He could do it. Probably. Claiming distant enough relation could give him plenty of leeway with his story. He could have never met Altaïr-- never even heard of the man. Claim to have been born outside the Levant, that his mother had died, that he never even met his father, and there would be no way to verify his story. 

It’s not like they’d believe the truth anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hysterical singing: Thiiiiiisssssss is getting loooonnnnngggger than i thought it wouuuullllldddddd!~

Kadar sees a lot more than most people give him credit for. Sees more, hears more,  _ knows _ more. The Scholars of Masyaf always praised him for having a mind for capturing details and so rarely letting them go--  _ “Knowledge _ ,” they would tell him, over and over and over and over, “ _ is the one true Power. _ ”

He knew who Altaïr’s father was from the moment he saw the man-- there’s too much of a resemblance to Umar to deny it. Altaïr’s power is in his inheritance, being born from Assassin, raised by Assassin, trained by Assassin. It’s not what he asked for, and it’s not something he wants anyone to be…  _ jealous _ of. At least, it wasn’t what he wanted until he was  _ told _ it was what he should want. Abbas, the Snake. It wasn’t fair, what he did to Altaïr. And Altaïr grew himself walls of brambles to make sure it would never happen again. 

This stranger probably didn’t ask for this either. To be the Son of No One. Did he ever know his father? His legacy? Kadar hopes not. Ignorance is. Better. Most of the time. Though, this stranger’s ignorance does leave Kadar in perhaps a bit of an... uncomfortable, position. He doesn’t particularly want to be the one to break to his savior that this stranger’s father-- and, half-brother, Kadar supposes-- is an assassin. A murderer. A martyr, in the end.

Oof. 

He’s been allowed to graduate to solid foods, at least. They’re still soups, but Kadar gets the feeling that’s more because of what this stranger has access to than any particular  _ desire _ to keep eating meatless, watery meals. Which is not to say that Kadar is complaining! He really isn’t in any place to complain, after all. He still can only barely stand without help. His wounds are, miraculously,  _ healed _ . Wounds that should have taken months to get to this state, if he survived at all. Kadar is  _ alive _ , with stitches and scars to show. 

Alive to marvel the humble housing of a poor medicine-man-- two tables, a pile of pillows and blankets that have served as Kadar's bed. A few cabinets and a few chests, both of which filled with herbs, save the one chest that seems to contain the stranger's few personal items. Kadar has done his best not to snoop, but the stranger doesn't exactly try to hide its contents. There were clothes, mostly, and a bag of coin, and, strangely, a few sizable chunks of iron ore. A smith as well as a medicine-man?

The stranger’s hawk squawks from the window, accompanied by the light  _ thump _ of a small body hitting the floor. Larger than a mouse, Kadar thinks as he forces himself to sit up. It appears to be a chicken. A fairly young, fairly small chicken, granted. But a chicken nonetheless. Probably stolen from someone else’s coop, somewhere, but Kadar doubts that it will be tracked to  _ here _ of all places. The hawk gives another loud, demanding cry.

Kadar frowns. “Your master is not here,” he says. Patient. Barely. The hawk makes him nervous-- he’s never had very good experiences with the hawks Masyaf keeps, and the hesitation it’s instilled in him certainly hasn’t helped his case. But the hawk hops from the sill and begins to roll the chicken corpse across the floor, and Kadar supposes he should rescue it from the further abuse. The chicken, that is. The hawk, Kadar is sure, will be just fine. 

Everything still hurts-- his joints ache and protest as he stands, and his head throbs behind his eyes. The stranger had warned that he’s still not “out of the woods” quite yet, and that he needs to take careful care of himself as the wound finishes healing. Drink lots of water, get lots of rest, even when sleeping so much all but ruins his sense of day and night-- it is night now, Kadar thinks, but he cannot  _ feel _ it. And Kadar is allowed to do stretches, but no strenuous exercise. Kadar understands that healing takes time, and has followed the stranger’s directions to the letter, but he cannot help but resent his current weakness, especially as he picks his way across the room and stiffles a groan when he bends down to pick up the chicken. The hawk makes a sound that Kadar assumes is both pleased and encouraging. 

He is panting by the time he makes it to the table that the stranger uses to prepare food, but he is also gratified by the fact that he’s up and moving. Momentum, like throwing himself over the rooftops and never wanting to stop. He wonders if the stranger will object Kadar going ahead and plucking the chicken, and decides that, since he’s up on his feet, he might as well start pulling his own weight. It’s not  _ strenuous _ work, after all. 

He's in the process of setting up a pot full of water to loosen the feathers when he hears a commotion down the street. Not shouting, exactly, just the patter of rushed feet and the cadence of panicked words. Someone is giving orders in a quiet, even tone that Kadar cannot make out properly until they come closer-- the stranger, demanding someone draw water and have it boiled, that another find spare cloth to use as bandages. Someone yanks aside the curtain to allow the stranger and the young girl the stranger is carrying into the space.

“-- And someone get those bodies out of the fuckin’ street!” the stranger snaps as someone else tries to shoulder their way into his abode. Said person takes an immediate step back into the street. Kadar does not blame them-- the stranger so rarely raises his voice or turns his tone towards harshness, and the anger of a gentle man is nothing to trifle with. 

If the stranger is surprised that Kadar is up and moving, he does not show it. He moves with strict efficiency, laying the girl out on the other table before rolling up his sleeves and shedding his bracers-- hidden blades,  _ Allah willing _ . Kadar stays well out of the way, pot of water in his hands, until the stranger turns his eyes on Kadar and those deep brown eyes…  _ flash _ , with an eerie sheen, like a cat's in torchlight at night. 

_ Like Altaïr's _ , Kadar thinks, and the guilt coils so tight in his stomach it very nearly makes him want to run. 

“Which jug is that water from?” the stranger asks, voice smooth and calm again. Kadar scrambles to remember-- he wasn't precisely paying attention at the time, but…

“The blue one,” is the answer. It was the one closest to the fire, so Kadar didn't have to walk far. The stranger nods, fetching another, copper pot from beneath the table. In it is a bar of soap and nothing else.

“Bring the water here, and wash yourself as I do,” the stranger instructs, and Kadar follows.

They can't have worked for more than thirty minutes, but by the time they're done Kadar feels like he's been on his feet for hours. His only solace is that the stranger looks equally exhausted. The stranger dries his hands with slow, careful movements, looking over their handiwork with a cautious eye-- the girl's face is half-covered in bandages, but the bleeding has stopped, and the stranger assures that the sword had, by some small miracle, not hit her eye, and that the worst of the danger has passed. She'll have a terrible scar when she recovers, but she will surely recover. He says this as he fills another pot with water from the red jar and sets it on the fire while Kadar scrubs himself down with the remains of the blue. Another strange habit of this stranger, Kadar supposes, such almost religious cleanliness. But in the face of such miracles of medicine, Kadar supposes a few oddities might be excused. 

The girl takes up the sleeping area that Kadar had once inhabited, but the stranger offers him the bed upstairs. “It _ is _ up stairs--” the stranger says with a wry, apologetic smile. He is scrubbing himself as well, now, in water that has barely cooled, and it turns his skin red in great patches as he sloughs away the soap suds. He takes the time to pause, however, hands still wet, and prepare Kadar a quick drink. “--but it'll be better for your healing than sleeping on the floor.”

Kadar cannot argue with that. Well, he could. He has so many questions-- where did the stranger get his hidden blades? Where was he trained in medicine? Why is he doing any of this? The resources that he are using aren’t cheap, after all, and it’s hardly as though Kadar or the girl can pay him back for it. True medical training is difficult and rare. The designs for hidden blades are supposed to be a  _ secret _ . To be without knowledge is to be powerless, and Kadar wants to  _ know _ .

But he cannot ask. Not after everything, not right now-- the stranger looks so  _ tired _ , bruises beneath his eyes and an aimless gaze that tracks nothing across the room. Kadar doesn’t even dare ask for help up the stairs. Which. Okay, he doesn’t need the help, if he takes it slow. But he wants to know if the stranger is okay, and he gets the impression that, if he were to ask right now, the answer would be “no”.

“Mehdi?” comes a half-familiar voice, muffled through distance. Kadar pauses halfway up the stairs, out of sight and out of mind but not yet out of earshot. But he is curious. He hasn’t heard the stranger referred to by any name, but  _ Guided One _ is not a terrible fit. “Are you well.”

“I need to clean,”  _ Mehdi  _ says with wry amusement, then pauses. His next words are gentle. Soothing. “I will be okay, Ada.” 

Such a careful statement. It may not be entirely the truth, but neither is it the entirety of a lie.  _ Mehdi _ did not assure this Ada that he is okay when he most certainly is not, but neither does he give anything about his condition away. It is the kind of deliberate half-truth that is common among assassins. Kadar smiles as much as he grimaces-- he pities this Ada, should she try to pry more from  _ Mehdi _ , because he will talk her in circles and circles until dawn arrives or until  _ Mehdi _ falls asleep, whichever comes first. 

Speaking of sleep.

The room up here is dark. There is no fireplace to light. No candles either, it seems. There are two windows, but they face the street, and building across from him is tall enough to block out most of the moonlight. The rest from one window is blocked by the hawk’s sleeping form. Kadar hobbles over to her and smooths out a few ruffled feathers, smiling as she coos against his hand, and uses the proximity to the light to get a better view of the room-- a pile of pillows and blankets, not nearly as lavish as the one downstairs, and the one downstairs is hardly anything to boast about. A desk covered in paper, the paper covered in writings in what is either a foreign language or an intricate code. Another chest, smaller, and this one has a heavy lock. Kadar’s curiosity peaks as much as his exhaustion will allow. As he finishes his drink, however, the allure of the pillows is far stronger.

Everything smells of  _ Mehdi _ in here, Kadar realizes, such a distinctive scent for him to have ignored for so long. Harsh lye soap, bitter medicinal herbs, and, beneath, something spicy and sweet, like cinnamon and cardamom. As soothing as the man himself. Kadar lets it ease him gently, gently into sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are we gonna talk about how the hit count has tripled with the last chapter? Ya'll are the fuckin' best, let me tell you.

As reckless as it was to throw himself back this far, Desmond often worries that he hasn’t gone back far enough. 

He could have gone back further. Probably. He  _ felt _ as though he could have gone back further. The Eye had offered that to him, shown him Greece and Egypt and  _ Eden _ , everything that they were and could still be. But the Levant is familiar, and, as much as Desmond had told himself he was ready for this when he’d stepped past the Gate, he’d still been very, very afraid, and that fear had-- has-- driven him… Here, he supposes. 

This is where Juno’s war began. This is when she turned two organizations that were  _ so close  _ to finally working together against one another like two dogs in a pit. But at this point Juno has had centuries, even  _ milenia _ to set up for this moment. Desmond doesn’t know if he, a singular wild factor, is going to make much of a difference at this point. He’s already changed a lot of things, sure, but there’s a lot of momentum steamrolling towards him-- if he can’t change its direction, he’s just going to be crushed by it. 

Khadija huffs as her legs are taken out from under her again. She’s learning, though-- she doesn’t flail. Her guard comes up to protect and support her head. She doesn’t bother trying to catch herself, flexing her midsection and arching her back in a way that will protect her spine. Her form isn't perfect yet, not by a long shot. It's gotten significantly better since they started last week, though, and that's what matters. “You've gotta learn to fall before you learn to fly.” Desmond's told Khadija that, like, a hundred thousand times now. About as many times as he’s told her that she needs to work on her footwork, because otherwise he’s going to keep going for the legs.

What he hasn't told Khadija is that he really isn't cut out for teaching. Altaïr never actually physically taught anyone, neither did Connor. Ezio did, to an extent, and that’s who Desmond is trying to channel right now, but he doesn’t have as much of those memories as he does the blood-and-bones of the Ezio’s life-- the assassinations, the deaths, the anger and the helplessness, the people he loved and lost. There are holes, and Desmond’s patching them with little more than desperation and on-his-feet ingenuity. 

Whether it’s working or not is questionable. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Desmond gripes as he offers her his arm to help her up-- she hasn’t quite figured out the whole roll-to-your-feet thing yet. It’s one of those things that doesn’t make a lot of sense until you do it right for the first time, Desmond knows that from experience. And she should really be practicing it in practical situations, but they’re towards the end of their morning spar, so Desmond is willing to let this one slide. “You asked me to do this.”

“I did not think it would be so difficult” is Khadija’s breathless response. “You make it look so very  _ easy _ . The way you took down those guards...” She reaches up for her shoulder before pausing, fingers half-curled around a braid that isn’t there anymore. Her hair had gotten so much blood and gunk in it that it hadn’t been practical to try and wash it out, not while her face was healing and she risked dirtying the bandages and getting something into the wound. It’s starting to grow out again. Kinda. At least, just enough to hide what a shitty job Desmond’d done of it. 

And yes, Desmond feels a little guilty about drugging Kadar and dropping him off at the Jerusalem bureau, but the young assassin was starting to get underfoot. Starting to get underfoot and starting to become a liability-- Desmond doesn’t think that Kadar will be able to lead anyone back to this place, considering that he only ever saw outside through the windows and probably didn’t pick out any easily-identifiable landmarks, but if he had stayed it only would have been a matter of time. Desmond needs to stay in Jerusalem, because he knows this is where a lot of the action is going to go down, but he doesn’t want the either the Assassins or the Templars to find him. Not yet. 

Tita staggers him by landing on his shoulder, and Desmond winces as her claws dig through his robe and she tugs and preens at his hair. He doesn’t wear his leathers when he’s training with Khadija, but if Tita is going to keep this up he might have to start wearing his shoulder padding. At least she has someone else to baby now too-- Khadija, when she leans too close to try and pet Tita, instead ends up with Tita taking a beakful of her hair and  _ tugging _ . Desmond has been shot before, and he’s  _ fairly _ certain that there is very little as painful as Tita pulling your hair. 

“Why does she do that?” Khadija asks, dour and rubbing at her head. Desmond shrugs-- fuck if he knows why the damn bird does anything. But Tita pressing her beak against Desmond’s face just makes Desmond feel… better. So fuck if he’s gonna be the one to chase her off. 

Instead, he leads Khadija inside and starts making a quick late breakfast. Rice and chicken broth-- it’s not much, but it’s filling and it doesn’t take a lot of time or effort and Desmond has a lot he wants to get done today. Tamir has already been murder, in his own souk, in full view of a fairly large crowd. The rumors surrounding it are stained with both admiration and disgust, but Desmond’s got a pretty good idea of how both sides stand. Al Mualim, he knows, will be pleased when he gets word, and the Templars are, for now, assuming that this was just collateral damage of some other assassination. Altaïr’s gone and kicked the fucking hornets’ nest, though.

Next is Garnier, if Desmond remembers properly. In Acre--  _ Akka _ , the people here call it  _ Akka _ . Both Tamir and Garnier very much deserved their deaths. Actually, a lot of the people targeted for the Hunt of the Nine very much deserved death. And Desmond didn’t actually think that Al Mualim would still order their deaths without the Apple’s influence, but if he feels the Templars have it, have betrayed him…

Fuck. Okay. Time for Plan-B, whatever the fuck that is. Desmond pretends not to notice Khadija tossing Tita bits of bread as he tries to think this through. His original plan was to take the Apple and stop the Hunt of the Nine, because, as far as he knows, that’s how the war really ramped up in intensity. But, now that he really thinks about it, everyone who died during this probably would have tried to start the war anyway. The Templars, after so long under Juno’s influence, were already ready and posturing. Al Mualim never cared for the Templars, only barely cared for Robert when they were friends, and probably would have been willing to do anything if it meant his place as the Mentor of the Assassins continued to go uncontested. The fact that the war didn’t so much start because of their deaths as it did  _ in spite _ of them. 

Juno pushed, and pushed, and pushed, and eventually everything just started breaking. Nothing could stick. Altaïr tried-- dear  _ god _ did he try. But Juno had him too, studiously and devoutly erasing all six seals that taught  _ exactly _ how to protect from her influence, among other things, like, ya know, how to stop the  _ literal destruction of known civilizations _ , and-- Yeah. Nothing could stick. Juno pushed and pushed and pushed until everything fell back in line for her. But if Desmond can minimize the fallout here, she might never get that far. 

So. How do you minimize the fallout from a public execution? How do you stop or even slow down a powerful, angry,  _ determined _ Isu when all the cards seem to be stacked ever in her favor? 

Desmond pauses, full-stop, spoon half-way to his mouth, and it’s only Tita’s sharp, startling noise that keeps Desmond from getting rice all over his freshly-cleaned clothes. Because-- okay, it’s kind of like fighting fire with fire, sure, but how do you stop a powerful, angry,  _ determined _ Isu?

You get yourself an equally powerful, equally angry, equally determined Isu.

Which is. Probably easier said than done. Damnit. Desmond tunes back into his meal just in time to shut down Khadija’s ideas about weapons training  _ anytime _ soon, because she’s not past the basics yet, “ _ You gotta learn to fall before you can learn how to fly _ .” But it’s only taking up like, half his attention, because--

Well, the Isu didn’t really have a lot of temples around here. Sure, parts of the Levant were under Greek, then Roman, rule for a while, but it was less dedicated iron-fist rule than it was a means of accessing northern Africa. And even if there were an Isu temple on every fucking corner, it would also have to be a matter of which Isu were even still alive and powerful enough to do anything. Minerva is out of the question-- she’ll still be trying to work out how to complete the Eye with Juno monopolizing the workspace, and won’t figure out that the Eye is going to complete itself until a little before she shows herself to Ezio in the Vault. 

Which still leaves plenty of Isu to choose from, Desmond muses, snapping a hand out to steal the rest of Khadija’s bread before she pilfers it all to Tita-- seriously, that bird is going to get fat if she keeps this up. If you’re worshipped, you gotta have at least some power left to talk to people so they know you’re still there, right? 

So. You’re living in a veritable Land of Milk and Honey, who do you turn to when shit starts to go down? Poseidon? His realm is water, which admittedly isn’t super helpful when you’re on the edge of a fucking  _ desert _ . Apollo or Mars might be more widely applicable as far as their realms go. Fuck, if Desmond were in Damas, he might even be able to hit up Hephaestus. Damascus steel, baby, best in the known world until Altaïr figured out the secrets of his armor, Hephaestus is probably living  _ large _ over there. Jerusalem, though…

Alright, Desmond, Shaun taught you how to do this. Just. Walk it back. You know the answer, even if you can’t jump to it immediately. The city is known as Jerusalem now, but go back a little to the Persians and it was Dej Houdkh. Back a little further and-- okay, that one’s kinda easy, another Arabic term of reference: Iliyā. Before that it  _ was _ actually Jerusalem, but somewhere between those two points it was ransacked, destroyed, and rebuilt by Christians. So you’re probably looking for a Latin name, because Christians were big on Latin well after the Roman Empire fell. Desmond can kinda still remember the map: AC. AC. AC. The name of the conqueror, probably, and...

Ah. Aelius Capitolia. Or, probably, Aelia Capitolina. 

Who do you worship in a city literally named for the Capitoline Triad? Juno, Minerva, and--

Yeah. Desmond’s gonna have a lot of fun with this one, huh?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no words for how much i love you guys.

Khadija is working the on the pepper poultice for Hassan when the one-armed man visits. 

It is not a terribly difficult poultice, and  _ Mehdi _ had said that the measurements did not need to be precise, but she wants to make sure it is done correctly.  _ Mehdi _ has been teaching her medicine as well as combat, and she does not want to show him that all his work has meant nothing. Beyond that… Well, Hassan has always been kind to her. She would like to be able to show him some kindness in turn.

“ _ Mehdi _ is not in,” Khadija says without turning, focusing on grinding the peppers into a smooth mash. The smell hurts her nose and coats her tongue, but she knows from the time  _ Mehdi _ accidentally wrenched her shoulder trying to teach her to throw a man twice her size that the sharp-smelling mash is not so sharp on the skin. “If it is something small, I may be able to help you, but if it is something very important, I am afraid--”

The words catch in her throat as she turns, suddenly insensitive and  _ cruel _ . Khadija has seen many with missing limbs throughout the poor district, begging in the streets and the souk, coming to  _ Mehdi _ with infections and pains, has been taught through necessity how to treat them. They were warriors, most of them, or workers who had lived through horrible accidents, and all are sensitive to what they no longer have. She ducks her head sharply, bowing from the waist, wincing at the feel of the pepper juice on her hands staining her apron. 

The one-armed man waves her off, eyes taking in the humble room. The bed, the fireplace, the table where  _ Mehdi _ treats his patients-- should Khadija clean it again before  _ Mehdi _ returns? The man is obsessive about cleanliness, his own and of his workspace, and his habits have been rubbing off, because Khadija does not think she has been so clean her entire life than she has been in her last few weeks here. Even now she feels the need to scrub her hands clean. To scrub the entire room, because the one-armed man seems to be measuring up the place, and Khadija does not wish it to be found wanting.

She… is not sure why. This one-armed man is unassuming, really, wearing plain robes that are perhaps a bit better kept than Khadija sees on people living in this district, hair shorn conventionally short, face on the attractive side of unremarkable. But there is still an air of importance around the man. Not the same as the one that hangs around  _ Mehdi _ , but still one that makes Khadija  _ attentive _ . 

Or, at the very least, unwilling to give this man her back. 

“ _ Mehdi _ has stepped out,” she reiterates, more careful with her words now, as the one-armed man continues to stand just within the doorway. “If I can perhaps assist you…”

“Do you know when he will return?” the one-armed man asks, and while his voice has the easy smoothness that is so familiar in  _ Mehdi _ , there is something sharp beneath. Dangerous. Impatient, a little-- not in a cruel way, just in the  way of a man who has so little time and would rather not spend it on explaining himself time and time again. 

It makes Khadija think, however--  _ Mehdi  _ often steps out of the apothecary for one thing or another, but he has never been gone for this long before, at least not since Khadija has been spending most of her time here. He left something early in the morning, after a spar that was so short it only just served as a suitable way to warm up for the day. It is a bit past noon now. Wherever he has gone, it must certainly be for an important reason. Khadija has no idea when he might be back.

The one-armed man gives her a critical look when she admits this. He has very intense eyes, Khadija thinks. She has known many people with eyes as dark as his, but there are dark eyes, and then there are eyes like his-- dark as onyx and sharp as steel. The longer she holds his gaze, the more it seems as though he is seeing right through here. Suddenly she is thankful that she has nothing to hide, because she would not be able to hide anything from the one-armed man. 

Finally, he bows his head in a short, polite nod. “Of course. Do you have something for pain?” And Khadija bites back a sigh of relief. Yes, they have plenty for pain. Khadija can do that. Khadija can help.

They settle on a willow bark tincture, because the one-armed man does not want anything that might addle his mind, but his pain is rather pronounced. And though he argues and stalls as politely as he can, there is no doubt that  _ Mehdi _ is not going to return before they finish their transaction. Though, if it was the one-armed man’s intention to leave an impression, he certainly has, if nothing else than for the amount of coin he has insisted on giving for what  _ Mehdi _ has always considered a rather common medicine.

Still, the encounter leaves Khadija with a lingering sense of unease that carries through the rest of the afternoon. She sets the poultice aside when she can no longer focus properly-- as simple as it is, Khadija is afraid she will ruin it in her distraction. Instead, she goes through forms behind the house. Practicing alone only strengthens mistakes, Khadija knows, but she makes sure to keep to only the simplest of forms. Nothing more than a good workout, if anything. Just enough to make her sweat. 

Just enough to make her exhausted when she stumbles back inside. Just enough that her arms are starting to ache and her legs are starting to feel like jelly. It is a good feeling. The feeling of progress, even if Khadija has to rest her shoulder against the outside wall of the house while she cleans herself up in cold, if clean, water. She even cleans behind her ears, though the water makes her shiver.  _ Mehdi _ might not actually notice, but Khadija notices. Or, at least, now she does. 

What she does not notice, at least until she is pulling some clean robes from the chest  _ Mehdi _ lets her keep her things in, is that  _ Mehdi _ has finally returned. With books. Many, many books. Khadija blinks at them in confusion-- medical books, maybe? If so, where did he get them from? They do not have the coin for it, and even if they did, Khadija does not remember many bookstores that sell such texts. Maybe that is why it took him all day to find them.

There are no pictures, Khadija notices as she leans over his shoulder to get a better look. Or, at least, the pictures that are there are few and far between. Usually Khadija can use the pictures to guess her way through what the book is trying to tell her, but she has no idea what these are supposed to be for. That is… a sketch of the city? But there are things wrong. The palace is not as large, and the wall cuts wrong.

_ Mehdi _ jumps when Khadija points this out, as though he had not realized she was there. His eyes are strange, pupils all wrong, a silvery-sheen making them seem even more…  _ inhuman _ . It only lasts a blink, but Khadija is not in the practice of questioning what she sees. She leans back to let him sit up properly, wincing at the cracking of his spine. How long has he been here?

“Ah, sorry,”  _ Mehdi _ slurs, rubbing at his eyes. He has been taking notes, spread out in between and even underneath some of the heavy books he has been reading. There are many sketches, Khadija realizes. Architecture? But if  _ Mehdi _ wishes to renovate his home, certainly he does not need inaccurate maps of the other districts. He gestures helplessly to his work. “I was just, uh…” 

Khadija shrugs, squinting at one of the other sketches  _ Mehdi _ has copied-- not very well, but it seems to be… the mosque. But it is all wrong. Too few rooms. And the courtyard is too big. “And see? There. That wall is supposed to open into a garden.” It gets a hum out of  _ Mehdi _ .

“Yeah, it’s uh. It’s not-- it’s from a couple years ago.” He squints at it, twisting it so that Khadija can see it better. “About ten, I think? I don’t really need this one, but--” He pauses, eyebrows furrowing. Khadija leans away. “You uh. You can’t read, can you?”

No, Khadija can not. She never bothered to learn, and she there was never anyone who bothered to make her learn. It is not even as though she has needed it. But  _ Mehdi _ makes a face. Not a bad face. Not pitying, either-- Khadija wouldn’t be able to stand it if it were. Just a sad face. A little hurt, even. His shoulders roll again. Not a shrug this time, just a shift, like his skin is crawling beneath his clothes. 

“I could uh. I could teach you? If you wanted to learn,” he offers. Maybe a little hesitant, definitely a little awkward. But honest nonetheless. Khadija glares at the squiggles across the paper-- they are so  _ little _ , they already make her head ache.  _ Mehdi _ chuckles as he quickly closes what he has open. “Not with these. They’re uh. A little dense. I’ve got some easier books upstairs. Novels, some stories, I might have a Quran somewhere…”

_ Mehdi  _ trails off, stacking books as he does. His notes are not in the same language as the books. Is  _ Mehdi _ going to teach her that too? 

“If you want,” he says, distracted. There is something familiar about the sketch he is distracted by-- Khadija has walked something like that layout before, but where? She cannot remember. “It’s a variant on English. It wouldn’t do you much good around here. Since it’s not a popular language, though, it’s good to keep notes in that you don’t what other people to read.” Khadija almost reaches for the paper before  _ Mehdi _ tucks it into the rest of the pile. She is  _ so sure _ she has seen it before...

Or, her tired mind might be playing tricks on her. Khadija shrugs it off and helps  _ Mehdi _ carry everything upstairs--  _ Allah willing _ , these books are heavy. He cannot have gone far, to have carried these back himself! But the leather is too expensive, the paper thick and smelling old dust and disuse. Khadija does not know of any shops or merchants around here that sell anything of this quality. 

Such an enigma,  _ Mehdi _ . Khadija wishes to know more. And if she must slough through a hundred books and a thousand letters to do so, then she’ll do it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters are gonna start coming slower when school starts again, so enjoy let's enjoy this fast update pace while we have it.

Garnier de Nablus is dead.

Desmond sighs in relief. His memory isn’t failing him-- the date is exactly the same. Nothing big has changed yet. Which is a good thing-- Desmond’s only got one shot at this. He can’t afford for Juno to catch onto what he’s doing too soon. Sure, he’s already changed a lot, but if things are more or less getting back on track, then she’s growing complacent again. And why wouldn’t she? After all, to her, Desmond, for now, must seem like nothing more than a particularly troublesome human. Maybe a bit more stubborn than the usual human, but nothing she shouldn’t be able to crush like a fly in her grip. It’s only a matter of catching him.

_ And I will lead her on a merry chase _ , Desmond thinks as he regards the Apple-- free now from its grave beneath the bush just because he and Khadija were kicking up a lot of dust back there and Desmond was afraid of unearthing it and accidentally touching it in the process. Now, the Apple rests in the bottom of the chest Desmond keeps on the second floor, hidden beneath a few silk robes and artifacts more expensive-looking and far less dangerous than the orb of burnished silver wrapped in gauze and tucked in the corner. Not exactly something you’d find in the house of your average apothecary, but Desmond figures that if anyone gets to this point they’ve already figured out that he’s not your average apothecary. 

He pushes it back into its corner and grabs what he was looking for in the first place. Better to not dwell on bad things lest they come to bear. Or, at least, that’s what Khadija has been telling him, because apparently he’s going to give himself early wrinkles worrying so much. Somehow Desmond highly doubts that-- all of his ancestors have ages elegantly, despite the amount of stress they were under throughout their lives. Isu genes. Apparently they’re good for one thing. 

Right. Books. Khadija has been learning at an almost frantic rate, tearing through books with newfound zeal that almost scares Desmond sometimes. He’d take her to the library, if they weren’t already angry at him for stealing all those books and scrolls. It’s not like the books were being read anyway, Desmond rationalizes. And besides, he needs them for longer than they were willing to let him work in the library or lend them out. 

A Temple beneath the Temple-- not a terribly novel concept, considering the history of the city, but still Desmond can’t help but be surprised. Jupiter’s temple is  _ huge, _ dozens of chambers scraping deeper than they maybe should have been able to go around the time of its construction. He can hardly believe people in his time didn’t know about this-- yes, Jubair al Hakim would have burned these records with the rest if Desmond hadn’t gotten his hands on them, but after  _ eight hundred _ years you would think that some kind of accident or natural disaster would have exposed at least one of the chambers. If not beneath the Temple of Solomon, then  _ somewhere _ in the city. Fuck, they might have even excavated one trying to build the foundation for a skyscraper. And despite all those odds,  Desmond hadn’t even heard a rumor of a complex this huge.

Which begs the question: what was Jupiter doing down there? What could he be working on outside of the Eye, that he needed miles upon miles of temple complex to work on it? Neither Minerva nor Juno ever spoke of it-- though, to be fair, Desmond hadn’t even known that Tinia was still alive until a couple hours before he met the man. The Disks had mentioned it in passing, mostly about how laborious the construction had been and how the cruelty had been a factor in the rebellion, but. But a project this big? It can’t possibly be inconsequential.

Could it be that…  _ this _ , is why Juno wanted her war to start here? So that no one could stop her from taking this? Which means the war was just a cover-- no matter who won, she would have turned them to finding the temple and pillaging and destroying its contents. And since the Templars won last time… 

Desmond shudders to think about just everything was lost down there. So much.  _ Too _ much. Just to make sure that Juno’s coming reign would go unquestioned. And how  _ strong _ she must have gotten after the Eye was activated, with the power of whatever Jupiter hid down there? They wouldn’t have stood a chance. 

Not that they stood a chance anyway,  _ fuck _ . Desmond feels the anxiety creeping up his spine, insistent,  _ demanding, _ until he’s struggling to breathe with it. He’s fighting a war that’s already been won to stop a woman who’s already dead but it doesn’t matter because she’s going to take over the world by abusing everyone Desmond ever cared for or ever should have cared for and he  _ can’t. Breathe _ .

Tita croons, low and gentle from her place on the window, as though just reminding him that she’s here. And it helps, but it doesn’t, because Desmond’s hands are shaking  _ so bad _ . Which might be, partially, oxygen deprivation. Actually it might mostly be oxygen deprivation. Desmond can feel his head swimming, his legs trembling until he slumps to the floor. It’s not any easier to breathe down here. But Desmond can rest his forehead against the floor and squeeze his eyes shut and try to get lost in someone else’s head. 

Inhale. Hold, just for a moment-- feel the air in your lungs, how your lungs burn and strain with life. Now imagine a feather hanging in the air and exhale,  _ slowly _ , letting your breath keep it aloft. Achilles has his hands on Connor’s upper arms, smoothing his sleeves up and down, up and down, to the count of how they’re breathing. Together. Connor’s breath hitches occasionally as he tries not to cry with the intensity. 

It’s a different kind of anxiety, but it’s close enough. They slip into one-- Desmond feels the phantom pressure of Achilles’s hands, hears the songbirds and rustling trees overlapping with the sounds of the district. Feels distress at the thought of heading back into the city, where the eyes seem to follow him wherever he goes. Controlled Bleeding is its own kind of relief, because it takes focus to make sure the familiar phantoms don’t start making themselves home in Desmond’s new living space. He’s been doing really, really well about the visual hallucinations recently. 

Or, most of them. Desmond’s still not sure of the in-and-out gold circuitry that laces his skin is a hallucinatory hold-over from whatever happened to him when he touched the Eye or if it’s an actual  _ physical  _ hold-over from whatever happened to him when he touched the Eye. It could be either, honestly. Considering the breadth of what the Eye was capable of affecting, Desmond isn’t above believing that it could have changed something in him, at his unconscious direction or at the conscious direction of Minerva. Either way, Desmond does his best to keep it covered and tries not to react every time he can feel it  _ crawling _ across his skin. 

Maybe Jupiter can tell him what this is. He worked on the Eye with Minerva and Juno, didn’t he? Before the whole shit that Juno pulled and the group fell apart. Desmond’s not super sure-- hard to pay attention to the rerun of the super-powered drama sitcom when you’re trying to save the world. If he’d known it’d come to this, though, he might have at least tuned in for the more important episodes for more than just the location of objects that  _ Juno _ thought were necessary. 

“ _ Mehdi _ ?” Khadija calls from down the stairs. She sounds  _ concerned _ \-- not panicked, Desmond would have come running if she were panicked. Just. Concerned. Like she’s having a particular difficult customer, or someone insistent who just won’t leave. Desmond groans under his breath as he hauls himself off the floor, joints aching from the position he’d held himself in. His heart doesn’t feel so much like it’s going to beat out of his chest anymore, and there’s only a fine tremor left in his hands. So long as he doesn’t have to do any cutting he’s pretty sure everything’s going to be fine. 

The stairs creak, and Desmond curses. He doesn’t really have the money to replace anything right now, but he’s done just about everything he can think of and there’s still one step that complains anytime so much as a  _ mouse _ puts their weight on it. Which would be an  _ excellent _ early warning system if anyone ever bothered to use the front door and Desmond didn’t keep forgetting that it exists and filling the entire house with the sounds of vengeful wood. 

He curses right up until he makes it to the bottom of the stairs and sees who is in the doorway. And it’s hard not to think he’s Bleeding right now, because the last time he saw Malik Al-Sayf in Altaïr’s memories-- fuck, Desmond doesn’t like to think about that. But  _ this _ Malik Al-Sayf is alive and well, standing in the doorway to Desmond’s shitty apothecary, looking far too similar to the phantoms that haunt the corners of Desmond’s head. And Desmond knew that he was going to have to face  _ someone _ from Altaïr’s memories eventually, and that he needed to have contingency plans for it, and he does, but he’s so shaken right now that the memory of Malik, broken and bloody on the floor of a jail cell, overlaps with the world right now, and Altaïr’s rage fills Desmond’s throat, followed by the bitterly sad taste of Maria’s death and--

Desmond--

_ Flares _ . 

There’s no other way to describe how he feels in the moment-- breaking at the seams, everything underneath that he hadn’t even known was there clawing its way to the surface through the cracks in his skin. In the moment, he is Altaïr standing before Abbas in the ruins of the Brotherhood. He is Ezio kneeling in the Vault, brought low but soaring for the first time. He is Ratonhnhaké:ton, pushing his fingers through the dirt and knowing with certainty that will be disproven that all his efforts will not be in vain. And in that moment, he is the Eye, looking out over the whole universe, seeing how it began and every way it could end and he could change all of it if he wanted hard enough. He could wipe it all clean, start anew, build something up in his image instead.

But right now all he wants is to be  _ Desmond _ again. And it is the most unsettling feeling in the world, his bones and flesh pulling themselves back together and knowing the structure and construction of every atom and molecule as they do. But it doesn’t hurt. Desmond doesn’t think anything could hurt right now, but he wants it to, because he doesn’t quite feel like anything’s real right now. Then it does begin to hurt, and Desmond  _ regrets _ as he collapses.

There are three hands easing him into a sitting position, two voices speaking over his head, one language that Altaïr knows so Desmond know too, but now Desmond knows it more than just from Altaïr, that language and more and the knowledge feels like it’s pressing at his skull from the inside. It’s too much, and not enough, and Desmond wants a pen and five miles of paper to get it  _ out _ , but he also just… he just wants to sleep...


	6. Chapter 6

By the time the man starts to come around, Malik and Khadija have already settled themselves down for a cup of tea and resigned themselves to waiting.

He comes around in the same fashion that he broke-- quickly and violently, before he begins to calm down again. The bucket seems to be placed next to the bed for this exact reason. Khadija makes a hurt noise in her throat, kneeling beside the man to push his hair back from his face while he empties his stomach of everything, including bile. Malik does his best to tune it out, though his stomach aches in sympathy at just how long it takes for the man’s stomach to settle. 

“I always tell you that you’re working yourself too hard,” Khadija scolds, ducking under the attempts from the hawk on the windowsill to get a beakful of her hair. She is pressing her fingers against the bumps behind the man’s ears-- relieving the pressure of a headache. Her voice shakes where her hands do not. “What is it you’re always telling me?” Her voice drops, obviously in mockery of the man’s. “‘Stress will make you sick, Khadija! You need to get sleep, Khadija! Don’t push yourself so hard Khadija, you’re going to hurt yourself, Khadija!’” A short, rough laugh. “Look where it has gotten you! Collapsing on the stairs like that! Did you get any sleep at all last night?”

“Khadija,” the man says, and oh, he even  _ sounds _ like Altaïr. More gentle, maybe, and much softer. Much more conscious of how his voice fills a space. But when Kadar had called the man “Ibn-la’Ahad”, Malik had expected… some familial resemblance, sure. But not Altaïr’s mirror image, shattered in gold at the base of the steps. Altaïr’s mirror image, smiling reassuringly at who must surely be his student as he begins to carefully pick himself off the ground. “Could you go draw some more water? To clean up, and maybe to make some food. I would, but I’m--”

“Of course” is Khadija’s quick response, standing and slipping through the curtain of the door without another word with haste that is almost  _ grateful _ . The man moves much slower, with much more caution-- a blue jug and a copper bowl, a bar of soap and a sprig of thyme. Two bracers on the table beside the bowl, and Kadar did not lie about that either. Those are most certainly hidden blades. The design is different, the construction more efficient than those of Masyaf, lacking the usual embellishments and emblems. But the purpose of them is most certainly the same.

This man is not an assassin, though. At least, not one of Masyaf. Altaïr has no brothers-- Umar had no other children. Al Mualim was Umar’s most trusted confidant, and if there were any other children, Al Mualim most certainly would have been sure to bring them into his fold. If this man really were son of Umar, brother of Altaïr, then he would have been hidden most of his life, and hidden well. And considering the reach of Al Mualim’s influence, Malik finds that unlikely.

And yet, there is no other explanation for this man’s existence. He is taller than Altaïr, certainly, perhaps a bit softer in the face and more narrow in the shoulders, but… The shape of the nose, the eyes, the cheekbones. The scar across his lips. The gold-flecked dark eyes. He ducks his head down when his gaze meets Malik’s. There is a  _ meekness _ to his demeanor, the kind you see in those who feel the need to apologize for the space they inhabit. Considering the…  _ display _ , the man had put on, it almost does not make sense.

“She won’t be back for a few minutes,” the man says, not so much in a whisper as it is just pitched low. Soothing. Like  _ Malik _ is the one who is unstable. Comparatively, Malik feels like he is doing pretty well. Though, that might just be shock. 

“I’m sorry for scaring you,” the man says. Malik narrows his eyes-- there are golden lines pressed into the man’s skin when he rolls up his sleeves, bright as the gold that had filled the room but without the glow. If they are tattoos, Malik cannot  _ imagine _ how the man might have acquired them. Malik imagines that they must have been painful. 

“My name is Desmond?” the man--  _ Desmond _ , such a strange name-- offers. “C’mon, talk to me here. Don’t tell me I broke you.”

“Are you feeling better?” Malik asks instead. It’s not the question Desmond seems to have been expecting-- he pauses with one hand resting in the basin, scratching at the lines of his inner elbow, head tipped a bit to one side. His back is to Malik, but Malik can imagine the expression. Lips tipped down in the slightest of a frown, eyebrows pulled together but only with a single crease between them, lines beneath the outer corners of his eyes: it is Altaïr’s “thinking face”, one that Malik has been seeing more and more lately. 

Desmond’s shoulders roll in something like a shrug. “I mean. I’m. Back in control, I think. Again, I’m sorry for that. I uh. I wish I could say I don’t know what happened there, but it’s, uh.” Another shrug. At least this one looks more natural this time. “It’s a little complicated?”

Malik hums in his throat, taking a sip of his tea. It has gone cold, but the taste is not bad-- herbal, with some kind of sweet citrus note. Kadar never saw Desmond like this. He never mentioned any powers like this, and there was a naive, almost  _ reverent _ note to the way Kadar spoke of Desmond that betrayed no  _ fear _ . He would have been afraid, had he seen this.  _ Desmond _ is afraid of this, Malik realizes as the man rolls down his sleeves, folding and tucking the cuffs so that they do not ride up. Afraid of his own power, because he does not yet know the limits of it. 

Not yet. Which is, admittedly, a bit of a terrifying thought. But the lines beneath Desmond’s skin seem to be quiet, and Desmond does not have the expression of someone who is struggling for control. At the moment, he seems to have the expression of someone who is about to be run out of his own home. It is an unnervingly uncertain expression to see on a face so similar to Altaïr’s, and is, admittedly, a little difficult to reconcile. 

“Try to explain it to me,” Malik says in the same sharp tone he uses when Altaïr is  _ not _ thinking. 

And Desmond. Tries. As he helps Khadija boil some water and portion it out for a number of uses-- dinner, washing, being stored in the blue jar for later. Malik can tell that there are some things that Desmond isn’t telling him. Not because he is willfully withholding information. Probably because there are a great deal of premises that Desmond just doesn’t think are necessary to explain, concepts that, admittedly, go a bit over Malik’s head. Actually rather far over Malik’s head. The story is impossible, but Desmond speaks not with conviction, but just. Quiet resentment. As though these are known unknowns, and there is nothing more to be done about them.

The Precursors. The Isu. The oldest known civilization, ruined by a solar flare, forgotten by time. The engineers of the human race-- Malik feels a little sick at the thought, that humans were  _ toys _ to these Isu. Slaves. Disposable commodities. There had been a revolution, led by the first Descendants of both Isu and humans, primordial Adam and Eve. But had there not been the flare, Desmond says, nothing might have come of the revolution. The Isu had been powerful, Desmond says, are  _ still _ powerful, with powerful tools at their command. Tools like the Apple of Eden.

Desmond brings it out at Malik’s request. An innocent-looking orb of burnished silver, kept from touching Desmond’s skin with a thick piece of cloth, kept from touching Malik’s skin because Desmond simply keeps it out of his reach. Malik can hardly breathe at the sight of it--  _ that _ is what Al Mualim wanted him to retrieve.  _ That _ is what he almost lost his brother over. The urge to take it and go, hospitality be damned, is a strong one.“Juno can exert her influence through it,” Desmond explains, folding the fabric back over it. “It’s what they were meant for in the first place. Keeping humans in line. Making promises of more and more knowledge and just. Stringing them along. Until they’ll follow any suggestion the Isu give.”

“Is that what happened to you?” Malik asks, thinking back to the golden light-- he had seen.  _ Something _ . In the glow. Shapes behind Desmond, leaning over him, leaning  _ into  _ him. Though, there had been no urge to want more, no  _ desire _ like Desmond suggested the Apple produces. Desmond shrugs. The Apple goes into one of the many pouches on his belt. He looks… unsettled. Like talking,  _ thinking _ , about the Isu is unsettling for him. His hands shake, until Khadija rests a hand on his arm, pushes him towards the window and the waiting hawk. 

A hawk that croons, soft and low, pushing her head against Desmond’s offered hand. A rather large sparrowhawk, dappled brown and white and dangerous golden eyes. Not the kind of companion one would expect for a poor apothecary, but for a man like this it seems… fitting. 

“Maybe that is enough for the night,” Khadija says carefully, though she very forcefully pushes Malik back down when he attempts to stand. “No, no, stay. Please. But we have spoken too much about heavy things, and my head hurts. Eat with us, and let us talk about lighter things.”

“Don’t let her bully you into staying,” Desmond says, settling on another pillow across from Malik. “I’m sure you’re a busy man, and I’m sure we’ve kept you for much longer than you were expecting.”

Malik pauses as he thinks-- he has not been away from the bureau for this long since he was assigned there, but it’s not as though he has left it unattended. Atif is more than competent, that Malik was intending to suggest his promotion anyway. Even if Altaïr were to return from Akka tonight, surely anything that requires Malik’s attention can wait until morning. 

Besides, Malik has not had such a cheerful dinner in a long time. It is comparatively tame, when Malik thinks back on eating with the rest of the assassins in Masyaf-- there is only one, brief scuffle over a loaf of bread that Khadija is trying to feed to the hawk piece by piece. A few children pass through quietly with their own bowl and spoons, and Desmond does not turn them away until the pot is scraped near-clean. The older ones sit for a bit as they eat, speak with Khadija and Desmond, joking and gossiping. 

Altruism, yes, but also a means of networking, Malik realizes as Desmond asks a few deceptively innocent questions about going-ons in the city. Children are so rarely noticed, after all, but can be so very perceptive. It’s why Novices are most often assigned to information gathering-- it is the safest job, most of the time, but many of them can go places without being noticed that adult Assassins cannot. Malik bites his tongue at the observations. Answers will come, he is sure. All in due time. 

It is late by the time everything is cleaned up and Khadija escapes upstairs to sleep. The hawk settles on the window sill, feathers puffed against the cool night breeze, but everything is warm and calm beside the fire as Desmond prepares another pot of tea-- something more fragrant this time, likely more expensive as well. Malik does not bother protesting, because Desmond has made it clear that he has more money than his living conditions suggest. 

“You have questions,” Desmond says, a statement rather than a questions, and sets the cup of tea in front of Malik. “Lay them on me.”

For the rest of the night, they talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mmhmmm this is good shit uh-uh some goood shit.  
> YOU ALL HAVE NO IDEA HOW PAINFUL THIS FUCKING SLOW BURN IS GOING TO BE FOR ME TO WRITE FROM HERE ON OUT. THEY MEET. THEY. MEET.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have a lot to say about this chapter except. I. Really hate Juno.  
> Have a happy New Year's Eve, and a Happier New Year!

Desmond is fucking exhausted by the time it’s all said and done. 

He ends up letting Malik experience the Apple-- it’s easier than trying to explain some of the things. Like, shit about the Isu, about Eden, some of the basic concepts that form the foundations of their technology: Desmond doesn’t have the best grasp on them in the first place, at least not in Arabic, and translating the language the Isu communicate in is. Rough. When they don’t have the understanding of the language that Isu technology gives you. And Desmond is careful about it, not letting Malik be in contact with the Apple long enough for either Juno or Malik to really get a taste of each other. 

Malik could definitely sense her, though-- he is pale when Desmond takes the Apple from his hand, shaking, eyes wide and on the wrong side of horrified. Just brushing Juno can be intense, Desmond gets it. That, and the sheer breadth of what the Apple can offer, it’s so often too much and not enough and the  _ need _ to know the rest is meant to be overwhelming. Malik takes a deep, shaky breath as he levels himself again, and Desmond pours him another cup of tea.

“That cannot be true,” Malik mutters. “Surely it lies. It cannot… can  _ not _ …”

“The Apple doesn’t lie,” Desmond says, and god, that’s the worst fucking part. Knowing that whatever you see, no matter how magnificent or horrifying, is  _ true _ . Knowing that there’s more to know. It how you get reeled in. And once they’ve got you, it’s so very difficult to get free. Malik is strong, though. Strong-willed. And Desmond’s putting a lot of trust in the man, sure, but if he had to pick one person to put his entire trust in right now, it would certainly be Malik al-Sayf. “Do you uh. Do you wanna talk about it?”

For a long minute, Malik is silent. Processing. Probably getting a handle on speaking in one language again. Desmond waits patiently, drinking the pricey-ass tea that was a gift from one of his wealthier customers and idly scratching at the lines in his wrist-- something’s changed in the calculations, he’s sure of it. The more he pays attention to everything the flare brought up, the better he gets at identifying and decoding what his connection to the Eye is trying to tell him. It’s a pretty fucking steep learning curve, Desmond’ll admit, but literally having his progress etched into his skin is doing wonders for his confidence right now. 

“I… saw Kadar,” Malik says slowly, with finality and growing alarm, and Desmond winces. On the more horrifying side today then, Juno? “I saw what would have happened to him, had you not saved him. I saw what would have happened to the Assassins, had Al Mualim received the Apple as he intended. I saw my Brothers enslaved, and I was so close to seeing how to cure them before you--!”

“She wouldn’t have shown it to you,” Desmond soothes, and Malik sits back down sharply like he hadn’t even realized he was rising. He probably didn’t. You get so obsessed with what you’re shown that you stop thinking about the means, only ever about the ends, and you just get. Twisted with it. Until by the end of it, you can’t even recognize yourself. Too much, and it just. Breaks you. Desmond’s hands flex on his hips, uncomfortable without the weight of the hidden blades he’s put aside, and tries not to think too hard about just how familiar he is with Juno’s influence. “She needs something to bait you with, remember? Something to keep you coming back to her. Whatever she showed you, it’s just part of the truth, but that doesn’t mean you need  _ her _ to find the rest of it.”

“Is that what happened to you?” Malik asks again, and this time Desmond doesn’t have to shy away from the answer. He and Malik have a shared language now from the Isu, words to share concepts and understandings that won’t be rediscovered for  _ centuries _ to come. 

Desmond explains what he’s pretty sure happened to him. That splitting open his genes so intensely was sort of like a primer so that when he  _ used _ the Eye, Minerva could go in and make changes. Adjustments. That Minerva was using the Eye in synch with Desmond, but not at the same time, and the separation of instances allowed them to complete the two tasks simultaneously-- Desmond could identify where he would be needed to change the calculations just enough, and Minerva could give him the tools to do so.

And yes, Desmond conveniently leaves out the whole time-travelling bit. A little too much for the moment, Desmond figures, and it’s not entirely  _ essential _ to the story he’s trying to tell. Malik probably knows that Desmond is leaving something out, because Desmond is an absolutely horrible liar, but he doesn’t point it out, and that much Desmond is grateful. He  _ really _ doesn’t want to get into the whole 2012 thing right now, especially considering the fact that. Well. Hopefully. The 2012 that Desmond remembers won’t ever come to pass. 

Silence with Malik is incredibly comfortable, Desmond realizes. Contemplative, but not judgemental. Or, it might just be the lateness of the hour-- it’s so late it’s early again, and fire burned down to barely a flickering glow, the last of the tea slowly going cold. The day’s been  _ long _ , exhaustingly so. Desmond doesn’t really want to sleep, though. He’s itching for a pen again, actually, to get the rest of this out of his head while it’s all still fresh. Not that it fades. He’s just got the energy and the interest to do it right now, and it’ll be a chore to do it once that interest starts dying. 

Someday someone’s going to take Desmond’s writings and learn from them. Desmond doesn’t really know how he feels about that. 

It’s a matter of where they go from here, Desmond supposes. Malik’s conviction to the Brotherhood is shaken, but not broken. Desmond’s control over whatever Minerva did to him is slipping-- if it ever existed in the first place. And the longer they wait, the better of a chance Juno has of pushing all of this past the point of no return. But they’re two people and a bird. A decisive strike from where they are now just. Isn’t gonna happen. 

Desmond tries to remember when Altaïr started questioning his allegiance to Al Mualim-- it wasn’t too long after Garnier, Desmond thinks. The doctor had a certainty to his conviction that hadn’t made too much logical sense, but it had been enough that Altaïr started asking the difficult questions. 

This will also be the first time Altaïr will return to a Bureau run by Malik, because Altaïr has been in Akka for the last few weeks, and Malik only arrived in Jerusalem a few days after Altaïr left. Oof. Reconciliation between Malik and Altaïr had been  _ essential _ to Altaïr’s success later in his life-- Malik has a way about him that forces you to really, critically think about every action you might take in his presence, for fear of never, ever living down your stupidity. And Malik seems a lot more mellow this time around, with Kadar back where Malik can know he’s safe, but as for his very strong opinions on Altaïr. Oof.  _ Oof _ . 

Bridges. Some need to be built, some need to be burned, some just need some serious fucking TLC. Desmond sighs, then drains the rest of his tea. Tomorrow. He can deal with it tomorrow. Or. Later in the morning. They’re pretty much useless right now anyway-- Malik looks like the only reason he’s not angrily demanding more and more answers is because he’s pretty much asleep already. Desmond rises, and hates the way his joints don’t even creak. 

“C’mon, Malik,” Desmond says, gentle as he can pitch it with his overworked voice. “Let me walk you home. We can pick this up in the morning, if you’re really want.”

“You aren’t going to run?” Malik demands, but he sways when Desmond helps him to his feet, and doesn’t protest or push away when Desmond steadies him until he can stand under his own power without risk of falling over. His legs must be asleep-- they’ve been talking for  _ hours _ , and there’s still so much to say, but neither of them can take much more tonight. 

“Nope.” He wasn’t even thinking about it, really. He could, pretty easily. Pack up and go. But he’s spent too much work building a network here, invested too much in whatever promises Tinia has left beneath the Temple of Solomon. He’s invested to much in the people here-- he has  _ friends _ . A  _ student _ . A job. Kind of. “I am going to make sure you get home okay, though.” Hidden blades, pack of throwing knives he hid beneath the table. The thieves around here generally leave Desmond alone, and so long to they keep to the main streets they shouldn’t have too much trouble with the guards. Maybe a few questions, a bit of intimidation. Desmond pockets a small pouch of coin, just in case someone tries to shake them down. 

Still, there’s a reason Desmond doesn’t like to walk the streets at night. Lived in New York for too long. Lived in  _ hiding _ for too long. He keeps expecting to see someone tailing him every time he glances over his shoulder, keeps expecting danger around every corner. It’s stupid, really, because the biggest threat to his safety turned out to be someone he thought he knew, not a stranger. God, what the fuck is it about Malik that makes him think about Lucy?

The bureau is smaller than Desmond remembers, at least from the outside. It’s still comfortingly familiar, though-- the bubbling of water from the fountain, the smell of ink and paper and jasmine as Malik unlocks and opens the door. The novice that Malik left to tend to the bureau, asleep at the counter. Desmond doesn’t know their name-- the Animus didn’t consider many of the apprentices important, so it didn’t really bother rendering unique names or more than a few prodding voicelines to push Altaïr back on track. 

It’s weird. The novice at the counter is a lot older than a lot of the novices the Animus bothered to render. Closer to Desmond’s age than Kadar’s. Altaïr really was young for a Master then, huh? Desmond shakes his head-- is it the skill or the over-achieving arrogance that his bloodline inherited from the Isu? 

Malik pauses next to the counter, scowling, almost reaching out to wake the novice before apparently thinking better of it-- the novice’s back is going to  _ hurt _ in the morning, and it’s going to be his own fault, which is apparently going to be punishment enough. Desmond stands in the doorway and waits until he can’t see Malik any more, and then a little longer. He. Doesn’t really want to leave. And he doesn’t really know why. It’s just a confounding enough emotion that Desmond forces himself to turn and go, locking the door as he goes. He tries not to dwell on the feeling on his walk home.

He fails. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAAAAAAPPPPPYYYY NEEEWWWWW YEEEEEAAAAAAARRRRR, with the new year's resolution to write even more this year! I will keep this one I swear!

Altaïr makes good time back to Jerusalem from Akka. 

Malik is hunched over the counter, very carefully penning something. Correcting the maps of the city, perhaps. In a city like Jerusalem, they need to be updated constantly, and it is Altaïr’s understanding that the last Dai was not so meticulous in his duties as Altaïr is sure Malik will be. Malik is an intense man, dedicated, and though he was an excellent assassin, Altaïr is sure that he will make an even better Dai.

Someone who Altaïr could learn from, if he can first learn to put his pride aside. It is a flaw that Altaïr is learning to acknowledge, however slowly. Blind confidence benefits you, until it doesn’t. Altaïr learned that in the Temple of Solomon, learned it again during his recent trip to Akka. Blind faith will only take you so far-- when the one you have always so trusted orders the death of a doctor, however cruel the doctor’s actions may seem, you sometimes have little choice but to reflect on where you have put your choice and why. You have to begin to ask questions, and Altaïr has found himself with many he is hesitant to address. 

“Safety and Peace to you,” Altaïr greets, ducking his head as he enters but not lowering his cowl. A private shop the bureau may be, but it is still more rather public. Far too public for Altaïr to be so brazen as to reveal his face. The more plausible deniability the Dai have in face of those who might be seeking the assassins, the better. 

“Your presence here denies me both” is Malik’s cold, if distracted reply. Altaïr takes it without a flinch. Safe as Kadar might be, well and alive and back in the hands of the assassins, that does not mean that Altaïr has nothing left to atone for-- Malik grieved for  _ weeks _ , believing his brother to be lost, crippled first and foremost by Altaïr’s recklessness and disregard.  _ Blind faith _ , Altaïr reminds himself, and carefully keeps his eyes from the stump of Malik’s arm.

He studies the Dai’s face instead. Malik looks… tired. Worn. Older than he had been even upon his return to Masyaf. There are bags under his eyes-- he has not been sleeping well? Perhaps the wound still pains him? Altaïr hopes it does not. There had been one brush with infection already, or so he understands, and Malik had not fared well through it. 

He also has one eyebrow raised expectantly. Altaïr ducks his head. He wasn’t listening-- he has no excuse for his behavior. Like a novice, he has let his mind wander and, like a novice, he expects he will be punished for it. Perhaps that is one thing the Old Man of the Mountain did get right in Altaïr’s demotion, that Altaïr’s rigid discipline is failing him in the face of his own emotions.

Instead, Malik just. Sighs. Shakes his head, like a horse shaking off a fly. “If your mind is still in Akka, perhaps you should have stayed there a day longer,” the Dai says, and through it is sharp, it is well-meant. Legitimate advice, rather than the scathing dismissal that Altaïr was expecting. The surprise must show on his face-- Malik laughs, and even that is not cruel. “I was tasked to be your mentor, novice, and at least one of us should not shrink in our duties. Now. Tell me what you did in Akka, and what you have learned.”

For hours, they talk, and for hours, Malik forces Altaïr to do what Altaïr does not often indulge in--  _ thinking _ , critically. Breaking down every action he took, recounting everything he read, saw, and heard in as much detail as he could recall. As the flaws in his memory become more and more apparent, so does his focus-- on the details, rather than on the tapestry of events that weave in and out of every detail. For  _ that _ , Malik does berate him, because nothing ever happens in isolation.  _ That _ is something that is drilled into the heads of even the youngest novices, and that Altaïr had so easily forgotten it in his hunt is  _ embarrassing _ . 

But the act of talking through Altaïr’s time in Akka does more than just embarrass him. The longer he talks, the more he begins to trust in the feeling that has been gnawing at his gut since he left for Jerusalem-- since he put a knife in Garnier and took in the words of the dying doctor, really. There is something  _ wrong _ in the pursuit of this artifact, something that the Old Man of the Mountain is withholding, something so important, so  _ insidious _ , that it might lead a doctor to do the most horrible things to his patients in search of a world where his bloody practice might no longer be necessary. 

There is something  _ wrong _ in the search for the Apple of Eden, Altaïr just cannot yet say what. Because what use could Al Mualim have for an artifact of such power--  _ powerful _ , for certain, but not a power that the Assassins have ever saw use for. It is not the work of the Assassins to guide or to lead, to decide for others what is best. And neither is it the work of the Assassins to be the hoarders and protectors of such artifacts. But Al Mualim seems to have taken it upon himself to--

Altaïr shuts his mouth quickly, lest his words begin wandering into dangerous territory.  _ Traitorous _ territory, one might say, even for one who has already been marked a traitor. Altaïr ducks his head once more-- not in shame this time, he has only spoken his truth, nothing more. But in understanding that Malik holds a great more power than he in this situation, and that with one word to Al Mualim the next dagger to find its way into Altaïr’s stomach will not be tipped in such merciful poison. 

If there is one thing that Altaïr has yet to lose, beyond his physical skill, it is most certainly his survival instinct.

And yet, Malik’s only response is measure Altaïr with a level look. Contemplative. As though Altaïr’s words had not come as a surprise, or, at least, had been something that Malik had heard from another’s mouth. Something that Malik himself might even had considered at some length, however short. It is a look that makes Altaïr’s skin crawl with a shiver down his spine that he can only barely suppress. 

“Your next target is the slaver Talal,” Malik says suddenly, turning from his work to the many cabinets behind him-- missives, mostly, hidden among ledgers and meaningless books that Malik likely hasn’t even read. “You will gather your own information, as I’m sure you have for these last two assignments, and you  _ will _ report to me before you take your next course of action. No matter how urgent.” 

Altaïr hesitates. It is a clear dismissal-- Altaïr is expected to leave. But. He. Wants to ask. Kadar said that he was treated in Jerusalem, among other things, and Altaïr is. Curious. But surely it is too much to ask, that the man has already been found? 

The moment in which he might ask has already well and passed, however. Malik’s raises an eyebrow, as though Altaïr’s continued presence is some kind of insult. It might be. It. Probably is. Altaïr bows sharply and leaves turns quickly to leave. Better he not overstay his welcome, everything considered. 

“And, Altaïr?” Malik calls as Altaïr is in the door. When Altaïr turns, the man is  _ smiling _ . “ _ Nothing is absolute, everything is permitted. _ Safety and Peace.”

“Safety and Peace,” Altaïr mutters and leaves.

That was. Strange. A reminder? Considering that Altaïr seems to have forgotten everything else? But no. There is more there. Malik’s words were  _ pointed _ , in a way that could not have been anything but purposeful. For… what?

Altaïr shakes his head. It is starting to hurt, all of these questions bouncing around, demanding his attention without first waiting their turn, and everything is too busy around him for him to calm and put everything back in order. Usually, it would be in the garden of the bureau, but he has been kicked out. Barring that-- 

A garden, in one of the middle districts, far enough above the city that it is quiet but not so expensive that it is actually used often. Not that the woman who lives here so much minds Altaïr’s occasional intrusions-- he is not here often enough to actually be a bother to her, and he always tries to leave it better than it was when he settles in. A few flowers have been changed since he was last here-- or, added, Altaïr thinks now that he is looking closer. Lily of the valley and its small white blossoms. Altaïr smiles as he regards them with a gentle touch. They cannot have been planted recently, because the soil is packed and solid, and they are long past simple sprouts. 

He must have missed them, the last time he was here. It is. Sweet. To think that the city is changing in such small ways as well as large. Details in the tapestry-- you cannot miss the forest for the trees, but you must never neglect each tree which makes up the forest. Altaïr sits back on his ankles. Not the forest for the trees, nor the trees for the forest.  _ Nothing is absolute… _

Umar never spoke of another child. Really, Umar did not speak of Altaïr’s family often-- not Altaïr’s mother, nor Umar’s own brothers or sisters or mother or father or. Nothing. The Creed was all Umar had ever needed, and so it was all Altaïr had ever needed. But. A  _ brother _ . A half-brother, maybe, but. Altaïr takes a steadying breath. 

Nothing is absolute. You can be a martyr and a hero and still have broken the tenets, not once but twice. You could have been a wonderful father to one son for as long as you were there and have abandoned another. Nothing happens in isolation. If Altaïr does have a brother, where could he have been for so long? Who would have been harboring him? Training him? How much does he know?

Al Mualim did not know, Altaïr is sure of that. Al Mualim could not have known-- his pursuit for Umar’s other child would have been relentless, unending. Had there even been a  _ rumor _ that there was another child of Umar, one who could have shared the Assassin’s Gift, Al Mualim would have hunted the rumor to the ends of the Earth.

Which means… it is unlikely that Umar knew either. Umar and Al Mualim were. Closer than Mentor and Student, closer than Master and Assassin. Umar shared everything with Al Mualim. There was nothing that was hidden-- one-sided, painful faith to a man, not an Order.  _ Blind faith _ , Altaïr reminds himself. Umar shared  _ everything _ , and Al Mualim has been keeping secrets. 

The thought throws Altaïr off a little bit. It should not bother him. It  _ should not _ . Al Mualim is his own man, and, beholden to the Order as he is, he does not need to share his every thought with those he leads. But there is a difference between being a private man with private thoughts and being the leader of an order who makes decisions on a scale much larger than himself and never bothering to explain why. It seems like such a petty difference, when Altaïr lays it out in words, but the implications leave a foul taste in his mouth. For all his life, Altaïr’s loyalty to the Order has been defined by his loyalty to Al Mualim.

Altaïr imagines that it might be time to redefine that.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I go back to school in two days, so updates are about to slow down *considerably*. I promise I'm not abandoning this, I'm just the dumbass who took 3 writing-intensive courses in the same semester, so im gonna have to start doing things like actually planning out my writing sessions, and I'm just not gonna have as much time to work on this.  
> The draft is about 25,000 words already and we're not even half way, though. So I promise there is still much more to come and I am going to see this through.  
> Tags have changed, bc there are a lot of Big Oofs in this chapter regarding the Farm.

Experience is a double-edged sword, though. Or, at least, stress is.

A group of guards passes behind them in the souk, and Khadija stiffens, contents of her basket jostling as she jerks straight. Scar probably aches in their presence-- psychosomatic response, but Desmond has pretty first-hand experience with how real it feels. They’re unlikely to be recognized, in their nice clothes, in a souk they don’t frequent, on the other side of the city from where they live, getting paper and ink and nicer foodstuffs while they’re here. But. Generalization. Greaves on the stone. The sound sticks in the head, and no matter where the sound comes from, it’ll elicit the same reaction. Desmond figures that blades crossing might cause an equal level of anxiety, and dreads the day when he can’t put off weapons training any longer.

He wants to put a hand on her arm, try to draw her back into the present, but Desmond’s got his hands full with a basket full of green vegetables that aren’t already wilting. So he bumps his shoulder as against hers as they step away from the merchant’s spread. “C’mon,” he says, doing his best to smile. “I think we’ve spent enough money today, yeah?”

Have they? Khadija doesn’t respond, and fuck if Desmond knows-- his best memories of how valuable money is during this time come from Altaïr and how Khadija stretches out every coin Desmond gives her. But it’s not like they have any shortage. Desmond still has to pick pockets every now and then, sure, but their little apothecary gig earns them more than enough money to live on. Enough to splurge on greens that aren’t already wilted.

Not enough to dissuade Desmond from pocketing a few fresh figs as he passes the stall. They’re expensive, yes, but it’s not like the merchant is going to miss one or two. From the faces in the gathered crowd, Desmond just assumes the man is overcharging for them anyway. Stealing is almost embarrassingly easy nowadays anyway-- when you don’t have to guess when people aren’t paying attention, it’s not so much of a chore. No need to stalk out marks, set up situations. Just wait until their attention is elsewhere, nothing more malevolent than a idly swirling green, and then it’s just a matter of having quick hands.

Khadija gives him an incredulous look when they’re clear of the souk and Desmond hands her one of them, a look that dissolves into sputtering laughter. “You have to teach me how to do that, too,” she says around a mouthful. They’re underripe, a little more bitter than Desmond prefers, but still far sweeter than anything he’s had since landing here. “Me and a dozen others. Do you know how many thieves would _kill_ to be able to do what you do? I’ve met a master thief before, and even he isn’t as good at that as you are!”

Desmond tips his head in her direction-- a master thief? He’s known a few unaffiliated thieves who used the title out of arrogance, but he didn’t think there were any true thieves’ guilds yet. They would have approached him by this point, Desmond supposes. But. That. Isn’t a terrible idea, actually. Thieves’ Guild. A good way to push around a lot of influence. And do a lot of good. Fuck, drop La Volpe’s title in Italy and half of Spain and people fucked off, and the Assassins under Ezio just rode that wave.

The Thieves’ Guild of Ezio’s time had the benefit of many decades of infrastructure, sure, connections and loyalties and fingers in all the best pies. But Desmond could probably have Jerusalem in a few years, if he played his cards right. The whole of the Levant by the end of the Crusades. Ally with the Assassins, give Altaïr the influence he struggled to earn during his journeys. Even if he can’t stop Juno here, Desmond can at least lay the groundwork for someone else to finish the job later.

It’s. Not actually a bad plan, now that Desmond is seriously contemplating it. He wants to try a few things first, sure, but even if he does wreck Juno’s shit, _Master Thief_ just has such a nice ring to it. Something to discuss with Malik, if nothing else. As though Desmond needs anything else to talk with Malik about.

~~XXX~~

“There is no trick to it,” Desmond says again, shifting a little so Fariah can get past him towards the door, a piece of carrot help triumphantly in her little fist. “You just. Jump. I mean, you gotta make sure you’ve got somewhere to land at the bottom, sure, and there’s a bit you’ve gotta put in your form and shit but-- you’re learning how to fall already, Khadija. You’ve gotta just learn how to let go.”

Khadija shrugs. “I just do not understand how. How are you not afraid, standing up there?”

Desmond shrugs. He never really got over that hump himself. Altaïr did it for him. So Desmond can only really talk about Altaïr’s experience. There was a moment that Altaïr was afraid, and then he was falling, and he wasn’t afraid anymore. It wasn’t a matter of _anything_ mental or physical. It’s just. A Leap of Faith. And once you choose to put your Faith, and your Faith is rewarded, you’re just. You’re not afraid anymore.

There’s no real way to explain it, though, and Desmond’s not gonna force Khadija into anything. He’s actually a little glad she’s so cautious with it. She’s not ready for a Leap of Faith yet, and Desmond would rather she take her time building up to it then try to rush it and get hurt. “I’ll be right there when you take your first Leap,” Desmond promises, because he _will_ be. He won’t make her do that alone-- it’s terrifying as all _fuck_ , and he won’t do that to her.

They spar while dinner finishes cooking, in full view of half the kids in the neighborhood, and it’s. Weird. How just sparing with Khadija brings up so many memories. Memories from Desmond’s ancestors, sure, but a lot of memories from Desmond’s childhood too. The Farm. Khadija isn’t much older than Desmond was when he. Left. Ran away. Whatever you want to call the mad rush through the Black Hills, face still aching through the half-haze of ibuprofen and Tylenol. The night William gave Desmond his scar. Desmond still doesn’t know if it was respect or anger at Desmond actually landing a hit that brought out that side of William. It doesn’t matter now, Desmond thinks. Had thought, heaving himself up with the help of the stump he’s fallen onto.

It’s done, and it’s in the past. Desmond healed. Kind of. Learned from it, definitely-- he’s painful conscious of himself, teaching Khadija. That Desmond has the benefit of three master Assassins and an early life of intense training to carry him through the motions, and Khadija doesn’t.

Experience. You can’t teach that. Desmond knew how and where to put a knife to end a life before he even understood basic Algebra. He was running on rooftops and jumping between tree branches before most normal kids were even riding bikes without training wheels. Before he even really understood what money was, he knew how to lift a wallet off a bell-leaden mannequin without a single sound.

He doesn’t _want_ Khadija to have to go through any of that, even as old as she is. He doesn’t _want_ any of the kids watching to have to go through that. They’re going to learn letters before weapons, how to save someone before they learn how to kill someone. If they have to learn, it will be gently. If they have to experience the rough of life, they _will_ have someone who eases the stress, not exacerbates it. Desmond won’t be for these kids what his parents were for him-- he’s going to make them into _people_ , not _weapons_ . _Functional_ people who can cook and clean and take care of themselves and the people around them. And they’ll know how to protect themselves and their loved ones, sure, but Desmond wants to make sure that they know that violence is not the only option.

Admittedly pretty bold aspirations. Bolder, Desmond thinks, than even establishing a thieves’ guild or killing a kinda-sorta-god. But no one Desmond has known has ever accused him of dreaming small, and, if he didn’t know them, he… probably wasn’t listening, honestly.

Dinner is eaten communally, even though Desmond doesn’t have near enough pillows for everyone, and once the pots are scraped clean and the dishes are all washed the younger ones learn to read with Abū al-Faḍl Jaʻfar ibn ʻAlī al-Dimashqī while Desmond runs Khadija through the English words for random shit laying around-- she’s already starting to tear through Arabic books on her own, there’s not much more Desmond could teach her there. English, though. English is _difficult_ , especially when you don’t have any other languages from the same family to compare it to. Or, when the concept of languages evolving from other languages and having ancestors just like humans hasn’t been developed yet.

He could teach her Isu, Desmond thinks as Khadija stares down a copper pot as though her deathgaze will somehow force the inanimate object to reveal the answer. It is, after all, the original language. It’s a complicated one, though, and there are easier ways to learn it. Not too many safe ways, considering Juno’s influence, but if Desmond could get his hands on one of those Disks that Altaïr found… maybe.

“It is a _pot_ ,” Khadija says in a sigh of defeat. “I know the name of the metal in Arabic, but since you will not let me call things as they are in my tongue while we are doing this exercise, I--”

“ _Copper_ ,” Desmond says slowly. “It’s a metal that distributes heat very well. And combined with boiling water, it kills what causes disease.”

Khadija huffs, and she’s aggravated this time. “As you have told me, time and time again, as though it will make the word any easier to remember.” She repeats the word under her breath time and time again as they move on, and it aggravates her, but she’s doing well. Desmond reminds her of that as often as he can, to Khadija’s fond amusement.

A chorus of happy cries comes from the younger kids as they chase each other out the door, and Desmond smiles as he collects the book from the floor. Poor Abū. His theories on economy are probably lost on most of these kids right now, but they’ve been having fun making fun of the way he words things, so Desmond figures it can’t be doing them any bad either. Besides, one of them might grow up to be an economist or some shit. It’s good to have a lot of perspectives.

“Letters now?” Khadija asks, settling down with paper and ink. Desmond smiles and settles down across from her.

“Letters, and then you can help me make medicine for tomorrow.”


	10. Chapter 10

Jerusalem really has changed.

Kadar did not notice the last time he was here, as sick as he was, the change so subtle, but. There is something different in the air, he is sure of it. Something building, like a storm over the sea. Lightning snapping and thunder cracking in the distance, and it is only a matter of time before it all breaks over the streets and floods through the alleys.

Or it might be an actual storm brewing, Kadar thinks as he bobs and weaves through the souk. He has little coin for himself to spend, but he is quick with his hands and quick on his feet, and if the merchant notices an apple missing from the great pile Kadar is long gone by the time he can react. People are most certainly carrying weapons more openly-- he spots no less than five daggers in as many seconds, and wonders at them. Perhaps the war is drawing closer, that everyone feels the danger so presently? Or has something else happened in the city while Kadar was away?

Kadar rounds the corner to the bureau and winces. Ah. At least  _ some _ things never change. Brother is yelling at Altaïr again. Very loudly. While brandishing something, if Kadar knows his brother at all. Considering his new position, Kadar would guess a book, but he would not put a dagger pass Malik, especially if Altaïr has done something especially stupid. Borrowing a bit of his brother’s wisdom and  _ not _ facing such a heated situation head-on, Kadar holds his apple in his mouth and scales the bureau. 

It is louder and more clear up here, the hatch still open-- Kadar lays down on his stomach so he can look down on the one-sided argument, crunching on his apple, safe in the knowledge that they already know he is up here and probably do not care. Brother has his hood down, which is something new. He must be getting more comfortable with having to show his face in public, acting as a member of the community. Hiding in plain sight. At least he looks like he has been getting sleep, and that means his wound hasn’t been bothering him. If it even is a wound anymore. Huh. Maybe  _ Mehdi _ took the time to look at it? 

Wishful thinking.  _ Willful _ thinking. But Kadar has often been accused of living half in the clouds. He does not see why it is such a bad thing, having a nice outlook on life. There must be good things in the world, or they would not still be fighting for it, right?

An assassination, indiscreet and messy. Altaïr, making rash decisions without thinking or considering the consequences. It is a common argument-- Brother is the epitome of caution, and Altaïr too often does not seem to know the definition of the word. Kadar is learning to ride the line in between the two. Too much caution is stifling, but. Kadar still bears testament to recklessness. As does Malik. 

Honestly, Kadar does not know how to feel about Altaïr yet. On one hand, he is  _ angry _ \-- Brother is a  _ cripple _ now, because of Altaïr’s recklessness. No less of a man,  _ never _ , but Malik will never be an Assassin again, and that  _ hurts _ . But. Kadar’s lingering admiration for Altaïr is  _ persistent _ . As persistent as it is  _ annoying _ . 

“Get. Out,” Malik snaps, patience finally fraying. “I do not want to see you for the rest of the day, novice.” 

Altaïr does not hesitate, that much is wisdom, and only Altaïr can make tucking his tail and running look elegant. Out into the garden, over the lattice-- Kadar watches him go with a exasperated, fond sigh. An idiot. But only sometimes. He waits until Altaïr is well and out of sight before swinging over the edge of the hatch and into the bureau. 

It smells like ink and paper, like jasmine, and water from the fountain. Like food-- it is still early in the morning, not yet even noon, and it appears Altaïr interrupted Malik in the middle of breakfast. No wonder Brother is so grumpy. Rice and broth might not be the most flavorful meal, but it is better than not having your first meal of the day. 

There is no hostility for Kadar, though-- Malik takes Kadar by the back of the neck and places a soft, smiling kiss on his forehead. “Safety and Peace, Brother. It is good to see you well.”

Kadar preens under the attention, letting Malik guide him to the back for food while chattering aimlessly about his ultimately uneventful trip from Masyaf to Jerusalem. It is just so  _ good _ to be eating with his brother again-- the other novices and assassins in Masyaf are Kadar’s brothers, of course, and he ate with them as often as he could, but. It just was not the same. There is something  _ comfortable _ about eating with Malik, to be able to talk and talk and talk without being interrupted, judged, or mocked. 

Welcome respite, after weeks under Al Mualim’s watchful eyes. Kadar had told all he knew about his savior-- within reason, of course. It is not as though Kadar actually knew where he was recovering, after all, or whether or not this  _ Mehdi _ was really son of Umar, despite verbal confirmation that he was, in fact, Ibn-la’Ahad. Better to not make speculations about the truth, right? 

Ah, speaking of Al Mualim and Masyaf.

“I have your package,” Kadar says, though it runs over in the same breath as his last rambling observation. He rummages through his pack as he speaks-- and, really, how did he accumulate so much junk over just a couple of days? “Rauf wanted me to tell you that this was expensive, and that this cannot be a regular thing, and that if it is really going to be necessary you need to--”

“Hold onto it, for now,” Malik says, lips quirked in half a smile as he moves to collect bowls and spoons and cups, and there is a moment before Kadar’s mind catches up to the reality of the present and he guiltily hurries to help. “You can accompany me as I run errands today, and you can drop it off yourself.” 

Understanding dawns on Kadar embarrassingly slowly, and it is not until they are out and about already, empty wicker basket in Kadar’s arms that the giddy realization overtakes him and his pack does not feel so heavy on his back. And of course Malik must take his time through his day, getting more ink and paper than he truly needs, arguing with the baker over the price of day-old loaves. Alarm bells ring, at some point, but they do not last long-- just a thief, probably, quick to disappear or quick to be caught. The basket is well and full by the time they wander into the less well-off district, but no one approaches them with any ill intent. Instead, many seem to recognize Malik, and greet him warmly as he passes. Not greetings that are reciprocated, of course, but it is not as though they seem to mind.

It is. Different. Seeing the building from the outside. It looks smaller. Even less well-off than Kadar remembers, though it seems in many places to have been patched. The curtain over the door has been tied to one side, that people may pass freely through. And the inside is different, too, once Kadar follows his brother in-- the bed beneath the window is a proper cot now, with linens and thick blankets and less pillows. One of the tables, the one where food was prepared, has been replaced with a counter that is snug with the wall, shelves beneath packed with herbs and medicines and stacks of paper and ink and quills. The table other table remains, though, and just as religiously clean as Kadar remembers.

There is a new woman at the counter, carefully working a poultice with green-stained hands. Not truly a stranger, however-- she looks up with a smile, and Kadar cannot help but recognize the scar of the woman  _ Mehdi _ saved. 

“Ah, Malik! It is good to see you again!” the woman says in cheerful greeting. Malik  _ bows _ , barely a tip of the shoulders, but a gesture that leaves Kadar a little flabbergasted. 

“Khadija. Is the doctor in?” There are pillows for seating, and Malik settles down as _ Khadija _ takes the basket from Kadar with a dismissive sound. 

“No. He went to visit the library this morning. I don’t imagine he will be back until this evening.” She sets the basket on the far end of the counter from where she is working, in the corner where there is no risk of the fire or the heat causing it any harm, but not out of Kadar’s line of sight. She is deft as she moves, like any of Kadar’s Brothers. It is. Strange. To see in a woman. Not unattractive, just. Strange. “I’m sure he would be rather glad if you waited for him-- you know how he enjoys your visits.”

Malik--

_ Flushes _ , warm and bright, like many in the presence of the Flowers. Kadar feels his eyebrows rise into his hairline, stumbling as he sits across from Malik, because this? This he just  _ has _ to hear.  _ Brother _ , aloof and cold,  _ blushing _ over Kadar’s savior. It is the kind of story the Flowers tell with moony eyes and adoring voices. Kadar gives his brother a pointed look and a sly smile, but says nothing but to thank Khadija for the cup of tea she passes him.

Malik coughs into his fist,  _ embarrassed _ , and Kadar is  _ loving _ this. He is a younger brother, it is his job to embarrass his older brother, but Malik is making this  _ easy _ . All Kadar has to do is sit here and watch Malik squirm. Not that Kadar is  _ judging _ his brother--

Okay, Kadar is  _ kind of _ judging his brother. Because, really?  _ Mehdi’s _ resemblance to Altaïr is not a passing one-- if Kadar had known it was  _ that _ kind of frustration behind Malik’s anger at Altaïr, he would have done something, if only to spare Malik’s voice. But. All is well that ends well, Kadar supposes.  _ Mehdi _ is a much better fit for Malik anyways. Gentle. Kind. Malik needs some of that in his life. 

“You are mad, woman,” Malik finally says, without much heat, and Kadar settles back in onto his heels.

Hm. This is some good tea.


	11. Chapter 11

Malik has a wife later in his life.

That’s just a fact, Desmond muses as he catches the needle in his mouth and goes about untangling the knot he’s managed to get the thread snaggled into. Malik has a wife, and at least one kid. He is the first to do so after Altaïr takes over the Order and the restructuring finally takes place. Openly, at least-- Tazim was younger than Darim, who was born while the changes were still tumultuous, but older than Sef. And oh, Malik had  _ loved _ Tazim. The Order was his life, of course, but Tazim was his  _ world _ . There was nothing that Malik wouldn’t have done for his son, and for Sef when Altaïr began his hunt for Genghis Khan. 

Family was everything to Malik.  _ Is _ . Everything. To Malik. And it’s honestly kind of amazing to see just how much Malik has mellowed out with Kadar’s survival-- he’s less volatile, less prone to grumbling and growling, more patient with whatever lessons he thinks to teach. More open to the lessons of others. More observant, too. Desmond got pretty good bottling shit up after Abstergo, or at least burying it deep enough that he thought no one else would be able to find it, but Malik is pretty good at cutting right through Desmond’s facades. 

But. Desmond is digressing. Malik and his family. Desmond doesn’t have a lot of faith in points in history that are never going to change no matter what you do, but he is pretty devoted to good things. Malik’s marriage, his family? That was a good thing.

God, but knowing that certainly doesn’t make what Desmond’s going through any easier. 

Because-- and Desmond is going to be honest here-- Desmond probably wouldn’t still be sane right now if it weren’t for Malik. Because sometimes Altaïr walks through the main room and Desmond has to remind himself that it’s just a spectre, Bleeding Effect, Altaïr doesn’t know about this place yet. But sometimes. Sometimes Desmond thinks he hears Shaun’s voice, or Rebecca, or Dad, or fucking  _ Lucy _ . Sometimes Desmond is too deep in a project and his lizard brain figures out he’s pushing himself does before his human brain does and he hears William inhale sharply like he’s about to start shouting and--

Malik is none of those things. He’s never been part of the Bleeds, because his genes aren’t part of Desmond’s pool. And there’s no deny the unique curl of Malik’s words, the Arabic that floats just as easily as it cuts. It’s a legacy, Desmond supposes, because Malik was an anchor for Altaïr as well for a long time, but Desmond lived this part of Altaïr’s life, so he  _ knows _ that Altaïr never felt-- felt like--

And, if Desmond is going to be really honest, he fell in love with Malik in the Animus. It’s always been Desmond’s big, glaring flaw, falling in love with everything and anything that he latches onto-- Bad Weather, Monteriggioni, his hidden blade. Tita. Lucy and Clay, Malik then and now, and yeah, people can’t be flaws, but Desmond’s  _ feelings _ for them can be. Weaknesses. But Desmond’s always been That Kind of Idiot. The Bleeding Heart kind. William and Jessamine had tried, so hard, to train that out of him, knowing that it would be something that could be used against him at every turn, but Desmond can’t help but feel that they only ever made it worse.

Neat, even stitches-- Desmond got pretty good at patching his own clothes, living on the run, and apparently making his own clothes isn’t that different. It took a while, getting all the materials together, and Desmond still doesn’t know how he’s going to thank Malik for what he managed to get Masyaf to hand over. Thick grey-black fabric that still breathes well, resin-leather plates thick enough to give at least some modicum of protection but thin enough to stitch between the layers. Expensive shit that is hard to get without raising a lot of suspicion, because there are really only three professions that seek out hidden armor: assassins, thieves, and career politicians. Not poor medicine men who act as teachers in their free time. 

It’s almost done, though. It doesn’t look at all like what the Assassins wear. The only similarities are tactical, really-- the slatted bottom of the robe that ends just below the knee, the light armor, the hood, the many folds in which items can be hidden. But the hood isn't beaked, and the style is closer to what Ezio and his family would come to where than it is what people wear now. Desmond did his best to make it as dissimilar to anything Assassin- or Templar-make as he could manage. He doesn’t want to be associated with either of them. Not right now. Not ever, probably, but. Well. Desmond doesn’t really know what the future is going to bring. 

He does know that, right now, Kadar is teaching Khadija the proper way to scale a building, how to pick out handholds even in shadows, how to climb fastest using your whole body and when it’s more practical to haul yourself up by just your arms, or push yourself up using just the strength in your legs and your hands for balance at best. They’re in no danger-- Desmond can see them both in bright gold in his Eagle Sense, and they both know how to fall. Two storeys isn’t going to do much more than dislocate at worst. They’re too old to baby anyways, and, besides, Kadar is trying to impress Khadija. Puppy-love. It’s cute.

It does, unfortunately, leave Desmond alone in the house with Malik. Sitting in silence as they both work. Altaïr is back in Masyaf, and though Malik has his hands full with stemming the bleeding in the aftermath of Altaïr’s very public assassination of Talal, he still somehow finds time to come around and look at Desmond’s notes. Not every day-- Desmond doesn’t have new findings every day, anyways. But once a week, at least, even if it’s just to check up on things. 

They’re getting closer to something, Desmond is sure. There’s a door, deep in the temple, described only once in one scholar’s journal, that is locked by six keys. It’s linked to the six Disks, Desmond is almost sure of it, and it’s probably where Juno got the inspiration that she gave to Altaïr for the vault beneath Masyaf. And all of this is starting to stink of something  _ incriminating _ , because Juno was desperate enough to destroy everything down there that she even had Altaïr overwrite every mention of whatever work was going on past that door. Destroying knowledge just isn’t Juno’s style-- she likes to horde blackmail, dangle it over people’s heads like carrots on sticks. 

There is something down there that Desmond can use against Juno. She wouldn’t want it wiped from any and all records if there wasn’t. 

And Desmond can’t help but feel like everything would be progressing much faster if he could just stop getting distracted by the little furrow between Malik’s brows when he’s concentrating. 

“This is all you have found?” Malik asks, and Desmond hums as he sets his needlework aside and uncurls himself from the corner he’d tucked himself into. The organization of the papers under Malik’s hand has shifted into something categorical, not chronological, but Desmond still understands it well enough. A lot of review, a lot of overlap. Everyone seemed to have written about the same thing. Whether that’s because they all saw the same thing or because they all based their writing off the same piece, Desmond can’t really tell yet, but he’s willing to consider either an entirely viable explanation.

“Yeah.” Desmond shifts some of the papers a little to the side so he can hop up and sit on the table. Not wood anymore-- it was too hard to keep scrubbing the blood out, especially when it started to accumulate scratches and scores. It was a lot of pick-pocketing, but they’ve got a nice, heavy, slightly-angled stone piece that makes Desmond feel a lot better about the cleanliness of his workspace. “Everything I could translate, as accurately as I could translate it. A lot of the texts are in Latin and Arabic, but there’s at least one in Sanskrit that I’m having trouble with.” 

It’s an old, crumbling thing, maybe a good two hundred years old and not exactly well taken care of. Desmond doesn’t even know how it got into the Jerusalem library, but Shaun’s rantings about proper artifact handling are actually coming through here-- Desmond wears gloves, and makes Malik wear gloves, and though there’s little to be done about dust or humidity, they turn through each page with caution and deep respect. And Desmond has the momentary, distracting thought of how it would feel to be the object of Malik’s undivided,  _ intense _ focus. 

That thought goes in a box. Which goes in a box. Which goes in another box. Which goes in the deepest, darkest part of Desmond’s mind, to not be addressed. At any point. By any one. Especially not by Desmond. 

What relevant pages Desmond managed to translate before he started getting a headache are tagged. Desmond doesn’t actually know Sanskrit, but Altaïr did, and Malik does. Masyaf keeps a pretty close eye on Northern India at least, as they do all regions in turmoil. A habit, in some ways, that goes back long before the  _ Hashashin _ , when Assassins were political operators who tore down and built up empires. Al Mualim had turned the habit into a money making venture, purposefully antagonizing conflicts in the region to ensure that they would always be receiving contracts-- though, as Desmond understands it, in the last years of Al Mualim’s life such ventures ended up putting the Assassins’ finances in the red, a problem that Altaïr and Malik would spend a decade fixing, and would partially inspire Altaïr to begin trying to set up branches of the Brotherhood in other countries.

“...and here, a name,” Malik says, pointing to a word that does, in fact, look a bit different from the rest. Like someone was trying to write something phonetically instead of an actual Sanskrit word. Desmond tries to sound it out in his head--  _ I-kar-os _ ? A Greek name. The text describes it as an “eagle from the Gods”, gifted upon a Bearer as a blessing from Tinia. He can’t help but laugh-- a proto-Assassin, no doubt. Desmond is willing to bet they were an Isu descendant as well. The two seem to go hand in hand. Of course their story would be told on the walls of Tinia’s temple. It’s probably not important to what they’re looking for, but. Eh. Desmond is curious. 

“Tell me what it says about them,” Desmond says, fishing a clean piece of paper out of the piles of notes, as well as a piece of charcoal, and lets Malik’s voice sweep over him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Desmond. You poor, lovestruck dumbass.   
> Also: I have. Mixed feelings about Assassin's Creed Odyssey. On one hand, I love it. On the other hand, trying to make heads or tails of the lore makes me what to toss it out the window.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im barely moderating comments, trust me, and only because someone took offense to one of my other works and decided that commenting on all my works with suicide bait was the best response? anyway, i think i caught most of them, please tell me if you find one i missed, this work has a lot of comments.  
> Yes, this has taken a while to come out. I have been working, i just don't write chronologically, so you guess don't get to see what ive been working on for a while. Anyway, long chapter this time, we're gonna say its the start of act2, i hope that's adequate compensation  
> <3

Parry. Block. Parry. Stab.

A fighter in his prime can fight, optimally, for two, maybe three minutes in a stretch. There is little point in drawing a fight out for theatrics, unless one is trying to make a point. The body will slow after those sparse few minutes, leaving the fighter open to mistakes and injuries. In that sense, quick and painless kills are not just a matter of mercy or practicality: it is a matter of survival.

Assassins wear very little armor for the sake of mobility, but as the guard's sword rips through the fabric and flesh of Altaïr's upper arm he cannot help but wish for some simple leather plate at least. The souk is in chaos. There is fighting all around him, other Assassins and a few Novices disengaging one by one, each making sure the other gets away. Too many guards. Too many Assassins in the same place. 

Parry. Stab. Block. Parry. Altaïr's body already struggles to keep the tempo, but his mind races to keep track of what is around him-- most are already fleeing, to safety or leading guards on a merry chase, and the few who hold the line with Altaïr are looking to follow. The crowd of civilians seems to understand that they should be trying to get anywhere but here, and it would be no effort at all to slip among them and disappear, but. Altaïr hesitates. Because there is a child with bloody knees, clutching her bleeding wrist, and six guards between her and Altaïr.

From the corner of his eye, Altaïr sees one guard go down in a tangle of limbs and red fabric-- a passing woman, it seems, with a dagger and a grudge that has long festered. On his other side, there is the clink of very thin pottery shattering on against the ground, and Altaïr does not think, only moves. His hidden blade sinks into the stomach of one guard as he dashes forward, his sword laying open the side of another, and while the rest take precious few seconds to decide which target is more dangerous Altaïr is sheathing his blades, scooping up the child, and running. 

It is not easy, scaling buildings with a child in one's arms, but the child has enough sense in her head to wrap her arms around Altaïr's neck and dig her knees into his sides, secure enough that he does not have to hold her constantly. The red-robed woman has followed them onto the rooftops. She moves with none of the inefficiencies of an amateur-- her robes have been adjusted to let her move freely, and she does, tucking herself tight over obstacles and easily leaping gaps. What guards they do encounter are not prepared when she launches herself at them with all of the ferocity of a hunting lioness. 

Altaïr is carrying a child, and tired besides. He could not join her even if he wanted to. Instead, he slips through the chaos of the fight and runs.

And runs.

And runs.

Jerusalem is expansive, with many twists and turns and secret paths. Altaïr runs until he is sure that he is not being pursued anymore, until the bells stop ringing and the birds are not startled from their roosts every few minutes. Until the child in his arms no longer shakes with fear. She has tired herself out crying, it seems, though she still clings as tightly as ever. The bleeding of her wrist has stopped, but an ugly blotch of bruising has erupted on her arm. Altaïr winces. It does not  _ look  _ to be anything serious, but Altaïr is not exactly a doctor.

He should not take her back to the bureau with her. It is a long walk back, after all, and there is surely a doctor around here somewhere, perhaps even one who would not be so heartless as to demand payment from a child for treatment. But while Altaïr needs to hurry back, the idea of just leaving her in a strange place, injured and alone, is. Abhorrent. 

The child sniffs into his shoulder as he adjusts her to carry her more easily, and it is a long walk back to the bureau. Not a silent walk, though not for Altaïr’s lack of effort-- once she is certain they are safe, the girl turns out to be quite the source of chatter. Her name is Chen, and her parents were from the Orient, though she was born here. Well, not  _ here _ in Jerusalem, but here in the Levant. Altaïr hums and nods at the appropriate moments, hoping that his apparent lack of interest will dissuade her from talking anymore. It does not work. Her father intended to take his family back to the Orient someday, Altaïr learns, but. Plans change.

Walking into the bureau, Altaïr feels as though he hadn’t left the fight at all.

There are not many beds, and not all of the beds are full-- there are not enough Assassins in Jerusalem for that. But enough of them are. Assassins are quiet in their pain, but Novices aren’t yet. Novices are not children, but still... the sound of them hardens Altaïr’s stomach. He sets Chen on her feet, and she sequesters herself in a corner where she will at least be out of the way.

Toward Altaïr and the front of the room, most are just bruised, with sprained joints at the worst. Towards the back, however, are the more serious wounds. Swords, clubs. Arrows. Kadar flints between them like a bird between roofs, quickly, never lingering long. His sleeves are rolled up high above his elbows, and his hands look to have been scrubbed clean, and he is trained in the basics of medicine, but he is not a doctor. None of them are. 

Altaïr scuffs his foot in the doorway to announce his presence, and he can tell that much is a mistake from the look on Kadar’s face. Furious. Cold. Too much like his brother, and it raises the hair on Altaïr’s arms.

“You,” Kadar says, and if his expression was cold, his voice is  _ frigid _ . “I do not wish to speak with you right now. Malik is upstairs.”

There are times to fight, and there are times to turn tail and run. Altaïr feels no shame in turning on his heel and vacating the room as quickly as his feet will carry him, before Kadar is tempted to reach for his knives. Altaïr taught him how to throw those: Kadar would not miss. 

True to Kadar’s word, Malik is upstairs, hunched over a desk, quill scratching against thin missive paper. He looks tired. Irritated. More than a bit angry. Altaïr’s stomach drops, and though he does the best to swallow the feeling he can do nothing for the way his chest tightens sharply. 

Again, he was stupid. Again, he was reckless. And now, again, someone else is dealing with the consequences, and Malik and Kadar are doing their best to clean up his mess. Guilt and shame rise in Altaïr’s throat, and he lowers his head. His mouth is dry. The words are difficult.

“I am sorry.”

Malik does not raise his head. His attention does shift, however, quill freezing in a blotch on the paper as he hisses out an exasperated breath. There is a ritual to the way Malik cleans up his work, cap on the ink, quill cleaned on a simple cloth, paper set to the side so that the fresh markings might dry. It is the same ritual Al Mualim follows, when he is angry and trying to decide how best to express it, and Altaïr feels his shoulders tense.

“Are you sorry for what you have done, or are you sorry for the consequences?” Malik asks, voice level, as he places everything in a locked drawer, and Altaïr answers perhaps a bit too quickly.

“Both. All.” Altaïr lets out a shuddering breath, uncaring if Malik sees him weak and anxious. “I am sorry that I made a mistake and I am sorry that others have suffered so dearly for it. I am here to help make things right.” Altaïr pauses. Licks his lips-- they’re so dry, he feels as though they must be chapped. “If you will allow it.” 

There is a moment of tense silence as Malik closes the drawer with a barely-audible click that has Altaïr tensing even worse in anticipation. Pain, he can handle, but he is already sore and tired and he knows that Malik can be more creative than Al Mualim ever was.

There are other ways to punish a person, Altaïr knows, besides making them bleed, and he squeezes his eyes shut, because it is probably better if he does not see it coming.

Malik sighs again, suddenly, but it sounds almost… fond. there is fondness in the way one side of his mouth quirks up in a wry smile. "Apology accepted," Malik says, and his voice lifts a bit, like he is mimicking someone with less gravel in their voice, "forgiveness pending."

Altaïr blinks once, twice. The words tangle up in his head, in the base of his throat, until he struggles to breathe through them. The world swims, his Gift bleeding with the rest of the world, and in the center is Malik, a gentle, deep blue, unshifting, and Altaïr feels his knees weaken beneath him. 

It is as though the floor rushes up quickly to meet him: Malik curses, once and with feeling, rushing to get his arm around Altaïr's waist before he bumps his head on something. Altaïr's hands snap to Malik's shoulders, digging in until they are white. He is not a fair-skinned man, Altaïr. Malik's robes are such a dark color. 

"Breathe deeply, Brother," Malik says, gently, and he shifts them until, together, they settle on the floor. "With me: in, slowly. Seven. Eight. Hold that, and… exhale.  _ Slowly _ ." 

Under Malik's careful guidance, Altaïr's vision slowly clears. His heart stops racing, though his hands do not stop shaking, and the tightness in his chest does not quite go away. Malik murmurs something that Altaïr does not quite catch, though his tone is soothing, and so Altaïr does not protest when Malik untangles them and stands. There is a conversation: most of it goes over Altaïr's head. He is present, but something still feels… unmoored. The longer Altaïr scrambles for it, the quicker it seems to slip away. 

Which is perhaps why it takes him so long to realize Malik is crouched before him again, dark eyes gentle as he waits for the answer to a question Altaïr did not hear. Altaïr hisses in a breath, fumbling to come up with something vague but acceptable. Malik shushes him with a gentle gesture before Altaïr has to-- the hand on the side of Altaïr's neck has him tensing up in entirely different fear than before. 

"I was asking if you could stand," Malik says. "I understand now that would probably be unwise. Try to get some rest; a doctor will be here soon." 

Altaïr has no response-- like his center, the words seem to slip right through his fingers. He can only blink as Malik stands and leaves again, the curtain swishing closed over the door in his wake. In his absence the room seems. Quieter. And bigger. Altaïr inhales, long and deep, and takes the moment to puzzle out why his limbs suddenly feel like he has run several desperate miles.

His response feels very silly, in hindsight. Malik is not Al Mualim. He is not a cruel man. He raised Kadar, when their father died, and though Kadar was-- and still us, to a lesser extent-- thoughtless and clumsy, Malik never once raised his hand in punishment. Malik puts little faith in  _ mistakes _ , considering them only harsh lessons to be learned. And Altaïr feels guilty for thinking, even for a moment, that Malik would-- 

Someone scuffs their foot in the doorway, and Altair jumps, almost toppling over before he catches himself. There is the sense that he has lost time, but it is difficult to tell just how much-- he could not tell you where the sun had been, or how much it had moved. 

Kadar clears his throat. Only once he is sure he has Altaïr's attention does he move, balancing a tray of tea with one hand as he pulls pillows off Malik's bed to sit on. He does not pour the tea once he sets it down-- when Altaïr looks up, he has one eyebrow raised expectantly, a perfect mirror of a younger Malik, and Altaïr goes through the motions of fixing both cups. It is more calming than Altaïr expected, the simple ritual of pouring tea and measuring out honey. He supposes that is the point. 

Kadar takes his cup with grace, giving a pleased hum at the first sip, and through the muddy emptiness of Altaïr's head there is a bright spike of pride at finally,  _ finally _ doing something right. 

"Tenet three: do not compromise the Brotherhood," Kadar says simply, without anger or malice, and Altaïr has no defense. "I am mad, and I am disappointed.  _ Allah above _ , Altaïr you are smarter than this!"

Some would disagree. Kadar does not care for their words, so Altaïr keeps his mouth shut and his head down. 

He is right, though. Altaïr is  _ supposed _ to be smarter than this. Or, at least, colder. And at one time, he might have just walked past and pretended not to see, but the guard had a sword pressed to a child’s arm, a  _ child _ .

But there are less Assassins than there are guards. Altaïr swallows thickly. What has he done?

There are footsteps on the stairs: Altaïr straightens sharply as he turns, expecting Malik, or perhaps Tarric. Instead, it is a woman, Kadar’s age, maybe a bit older, with a grisly scar crossing one eye from forehead to jaw. But she has bright eyes, and a gentle smile, and Kadar seems to gentle at the sight of her. 

“ _ Al Mehdi _ says that all of them should be fine, with bedrest and good food,” she says. Altaïr’s relief is palpable, though he does narrow his eyes. He recognizes the red of her robes, the odd way she moves, like something predatory and too-smooth. Like an Assassin. Like Adha. “Malik said--”

She freezes when she sees Altaïr’s face, blinking rapidly, as though she struggles to understand what she is seeing. Altaïr resists the urge to flush-- the Flowers often tell him that he is too pretty to wear his hood up all the time, and that makes him more keen to rarely let it down. “-- that there was another who needed to be seen to?” she finishes, though her voice is a bit higher. Surprised?

Kadar hums. “Altaïr was part of the fight, yes, and Malik said he had one of Des--  _ Al Mehdi’s _ attacks.”

The woman--  _ Khadija _ , she calls herself-- frowns as she helps Altaïr out of his outer robes. The gash on his upper arm is ugly, but the bleeding has stopped, and it doesn’t look to be deep, just long. She washes it and gives it a careful examination before deeming it acceptable to simply bandage. For his…  _ attack _ , she prescribes bedrest and good food with the rest of the injured.

A voice calls from downstairs, once Khadija is finished, and she rushes down to answer, leaving Altaïr and Kadar to clean up the tea. Which is. Fine. They are well and capable of such, and it is an Assassin Bureau, not Khadija’s home, but it is. Strange. Atypical. A bit amusing, really. 

Kadar gives Altaïr a serious look as he picks up the tray and stands. “Don’t make a scene,” he says. 

Altaïr blinks, confused.

There is a man speaking with Malik at the bottom of the stairs, and. Oh. Altaïr understands.


	13. Chapter 13

This didn't happen last time.

Or, maybe it did? Desmond's memory of Altaïr's life isn't actually as thorough as he would like: anything that wasn't immediately relevant to his Hunt for the Nine or the Apple of Eden, Abstergo just cut, leaving huge gaps in Desmond's memory. This moment kinda feels formative, though. Like something they could have used to increase his synchronization if nothing else.

That's just Desmond's humble opinion, though. The humble opinion of someone trying to be angry about the situation, because otherwise he's going to curl up in a corner and have a mental breakdown. Desmond isn't a doctor, he isn't nearly prepared for this kind of situation. A myriad of scrapes, bruises, and surface-level sword wounds, a couple rolled ankles, a broken leg. One of the novices has an arrow in his shoulder. And there's a kid who definitely shouldn't be here with a gash on her wrist and some ugly bruising who's making the better-off Assassins play hot-potato keeping her distracted. Desmond sets his bag on the one empty bed and tries to take a steadying breath. 

He's still fully kitted out, which must be a fairly odd sight. Raven among doves, and all that. His intention when he left the house this morning was to just test everything. Light testing-- some climbing, some freerunning, maybe a Leap of Faith-- just to see how everything would handle the strain. And he hadn't intended to get involved in the fight either, because his promise to the thieves he'd managed to persuade to work with him was one of neutrality in this whole Assassin-Templar dispute, at least for now. But Khadija had jumped into the fray without hesitation, and Altaïr looked like he wasn't going to leave unless someone dragged him out by the scruff of his neck, and...

Good intentions, horrible fucking execution, Desmond muses as he ties off the few stitches needed on the deeper end of this particular slash. Malik is trying to get the Assassin with the broken leg to choke down some poppy for the pain, and Khadija is trying to do the same for the Novice with the arrow in his shoulder. Well. Crossbow bolt. Which isn't actually better, because the fletching is much closer to the wound, and there's a much higher risk of infection from dirt and/or debris. 

Bolt first, Desmond thinks as he neatly tucks the end of the bandage, then leg. The break is more painful, but the bolt is still bleeding, and the novice is small enough to not have much blood to spare. He's closer to Kadar's age, fuck, he probably shouldn't have even been there, and he trembles with fear as Desmond approaches and Khadija wraps her arms around him in a simple hold to keep him still. Half-gone on opium, he doesn't have the energy to tense when Desmond wraps a hand around the shaft of the bolt, and as Desmond starts to tug it out in one quick motion he's just really, really hoping that the kid won't remember this exact moment.

Desmond's dug a bullet out of his own shoulder before. By the way the novice's jaw clenches on a ragged groan, he can't imagine this is any more pleasant.

Stem the bleeding. Bandage the wound. Wash hands. Desmond forces himself not to mentally check out while trying to get the blood out from beneath his nails, which means he's also forced to acknowledge the thin tremor in his hands as he flicks off the excess water. He's just glad he skipped breakfast this morning, because his stomach is in absolute knots, and he's definitely going to be indulging in some wonderfully painful dry-heaving when this is through. 

Fuck. Khadija has blood on her nice dress. Desmond will buy her a new one. Fuck, he’ll buy her a whole new wardrobe.  _ And _ tailor them. He’s already going to have to dip into his savings to restock his supplies after this, and she is way too good to him anyways.

The Assassin is an older man with a salt and pepper beard and startlingly clear eyes for all he has had more time to start feeling the effects of opium. He sits up with Malik's assistance, though both of his hands are white-knuckled in the sheets and his teeth are gritted in pain. Desmond smiles as reassuringly as he can and gestures for Malik to help the man lay down properly.

"We'll get you through this, but you're not going to want to watch," Desmond assures when the man tries to protest. And he gets it, why the Assassin might want to-- he's dealing not just with the pain of a broken leg, but the fear of early retirement, that he might never be able to move like he wants to ever again. But Desmond really needs this guy relaxed for this, and he doesn't particularly want an audience for what he's about to do.

"Just do it right," the Assassin growls.

Desmond closes his eyes.

It's not something he likes to do, focusing on the minuscule aspects of the Calculations like this, but it is something he's forced himself to get better at, because there's not really a point to ignoring a powerful tool just because it makes you a little itchy when you use it. At least his markings don't bother lighting up unless he's trying to fuss with the big stuff. Something as small as whether or not someone's leg is broken cleanly, it's barely a firefly's glow, hidden easily enough by Desmond's dark robes. 

And it is a clean break. Desmond's sure his relief must be palpable at that. A clean break he can set easily enough. He doesn't actually know what he would do if it weren't. It's unpleasant, and he doesn't think he's ever going to get comfortable with the feeling of bones shifting under his hands, but it's doable, and double relief that the Assassin is probably going to heal smoothly too. 

The Assassin gives Desmond a measured, if hazy, look as Desmond straightens from the now-secure splint. "A thief and a doctor. How have you not crossed paths with us before?"

Desmond just smiles and pats the Assassin's good knee. "Try to get some rest," he says instead of actually answering. "It'll be about a week before you should be putting any real weight on that leg." 

Even as he's walking away, Desmond's already thinking about what the Assassin is going to need. Willow-bark tea for the pain, at least for the first couple of weeks, and Rebecca always talked about needing pretty extensive physical therapy after she broke her legs? Her injuries were pretty messy, though. Desmond doesn't know what kind of correlation there is between the damage and the kind of therapy you'll need, or how he's supposed to gauge any of this, or if he's even cut out to guide someone through their recovery, he really doesn't want to fuck this up and--

Exhale slow. Desmond flicks the water off his hands, this time actually using a towel to dry them because there aren't any more injuries to see to and he doesn't have to worry about how many people have used this towel before him now. The bureau is quiet, just warm enough to make Desmond feel a bit like he wants to lay down and take a nap. Which. Might just be the exhaustion talking. Either way, everyone is seen to and resting, and Desmond is too tired to do much more than pull a blanket up over where the little girl, Chen, is curled up against the chest of a sleeping Assassin. 

His own shoulder is starting to ache, Desmond realizes as he exits the back room to join Malik at the base of the stairs. Probably bruised it or something-- he remembers body-checking a guard, which, yes, took the guard down, but maybe throwing his whole weight into metal plate armor wasn't Desmond's brightest idea of the week. Desmond digs his fingers into the meat there as he approaches, and Malik gives him a sympathetic look.

“Altaïr had one of your attacks,” Malik explains in a gentle murmur, reaching out to take Desmond by the back of the head, to rest their foreheads together. “Khadija is upstairs seeing to him.”

Desmond hums in his throat. He’s only ever been to a therapist once in his life, but two things have stuck with him: he tends to supplant and ignore his own needs if someone else needs help as a way of not addressing his own problems, and anxiety sometimes has a genetic origin.

Which. Was kind of curious, considering how Desmond is supposed to be born and bred and tailored to be the Isu’s perfect tool. Then it made an uncomfortable amount of sense, because you want your tool to be compliant, don’t you? And what better way to make someone compliant than to make them constantly afraid of failure, or disapproval, or not being enough? It’s easy to manipulate someone who’s constantly looking for validation. Easy to twist them into something monstrous.

Malik brushes a thumb over the corner of Desmond’s eye. “You should get some rest. What is it you always say to Khadija? ‘There is no point in working yourself to death. Take care of yourself first--’”

“--so you can take care of other people later, yeah,” Desmond finishes lamely, leaning into Malik just a little bit. And Desmond hates how freely Malik gives him affection,  _ physical affection _ . It  _ hurts _ , a deep-seated ache in Desmond’s chest, because at his core Desmond is.

Lonely.

He always has been, really-- a lonely child to whom physical affection was only ever given as praise, a lonely teen fighting tooth and nail to prove that he didn’t need anyone or anything to keep living, a lonely adult with the weight of the world on his shoulders. People had to carve space for themselves out of that loneliness. Lucy, first, and Desmond’s stomach aches like a blade sinking deep, but Shaun and Rebecca and Clay too. Dad, in those last hours. And now, Khadija and Kadar. 

And Malik, who had at one time stood beside Desmond as he wore Altaïr’s skin and walked Altaïr’s steps, who now stands by Desmond with unwavering faith, even if Desmond’s  _ common sense _ is sometimes in question. Desmond misses Shaun and Rebecca and Lucy like someone misses a limb, like some part of him has been sheared off in their absence, but Malik… He’d rather tear his own heart out, Desmond thinks, than to lose the company of Malik al-Sayf. 

Malik al-Sayf, who gives Desmond a gentle smile as he puts a considerate step of space between them, as though Desmond  _ wants _ that. Desmond swallows down the urge to grab Malik and pull him back and not let him go. Calls for Khadija instead, because if he doesn’t leave now, he’s never going to leave. 

He’s already trying to turn his mind to what he’s going to need to do once he gets home. There isn’t much left to prepare medicine with, but he’s sure he can whip up some simple painkillers for Kadar or another novice to pick up when they have a moment. And he’s going to have to get in touch with him contacts, explain some things. Pay some reparations, probably. And adjust his smoke-bomb recipe, because it was functional today, sure, but if he could get a little more dispersion-- 

Khadija places her hand gently on Desmond’s shoulder as she passes, and whatever Desmond is going to say to her sticks in his throat as he turns to see who is standing at the top of the stairs. Stripped down to his underrobe, a white bandage around his upper arm, but. He looks good. Altaïr looks good.

Oh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, my head wasn't in a good place when i wrote some of these parts. Yes, I am fine. No, i don't want to talk about it. Yes, I do have someone to talk to. Yes, i will be adding that sweet sweet mutual pining tag.   
> If you want to read more stuff that comes out with more consistency and a lot more variety, check out esama, the person who wrote the work that inspired this one.


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